Gift of Screws
by Duckie Nicks
Summary: For a price, House agrees to celebrate Purim with Cuddy and Rachel. But although he's getting all the sex he wants, he's still not sure he'll be able to last the weekend. Established relationship, contains sexual situations. House/Cuddy. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This piece takes place in the future when Rachel is five; House and Cuddy are in an established relationship. This fic also contains sex. If any of those things bother you, please hit your back button.

_Disclaimer: I don't own them._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter One: Friday Night**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

He looked up from his book when he saw her come out of the bathroom. A white terry cloth towel was wrapped around her body, which was a delicate shade of pink from the heat; her hair was wet, the dark strands practically plastered to her face, and the entire look was one he couldn't resist much less ignore.

House wanted to, of course. He was _not_ happy with her right now; having spent the morning snooping through the desk in her office, he'd spent the rest of the day being annoyed at her, and he wasn't ready for her body to leech the irritation out of him.

Luckily for him, Cuddy was in the mood to be annoying.

Sitting on the bed, she began to rub lotion into the smooth skin of her legs. And as she did so, she said sweetly, "_House_…"

In protest he started to read once more; from experience, he knew that she _really _only used the tone of voice she was using when she wanted something from him, and since he was angry with her, he was in no mood to give her anything. So he supposed it wasn't surprising when she, wanting an answer, asked him, "Did you break into my office today?"

He looked up at her innocently. "Does that sound like something I would do?"

Her fingers were massaging the curve of her knee when she answered "Yes. You do."

"Well, like the prophet Shaggy once said: it wasn't me."

She shifted her body on the bed, so she could face him. "I _know_ it was you."

He scoffed at her tactics. Did she really think he was going to confess? "Oh really? _How_?"

Cuddy smirked at him, her lips on the verge of a predatory smile. "After we had to call a S.W.A.T. team to take care of a _hostage_ situation in _my_ office, I decided that it was a good idea to have cameras installed in the –"

"Yeah, because _nothing _stops a gunman from shooting like 'Surprise, you're on _Candid Camera_,'" House said, sarcasm and doubt laced in every tone.

Honestly, he didn't really care about her reasoning for having surveillance installed. If anything, it seemed _more _unusual that she _hadn't_ had such precautions taken earlier in her career. Especially after what's-her-face had stolen drugs from the pharmacy, House recognized that it made _sense_ to have everything recorded. But at the moment, he was willing to exploit the issue in order to distract Cuddy from what he'd done.

However, she wasn't interested in taking the bait.

"Don't change the subject," she ordered coolly. "Why did you break into my office?"

He rolled his eyes in response. "That's not the question you want to ask me."

"If I didn't want to ask it, I wouldn't have," she said through gritted teeth.

"_Fine_. It's the question you shouldn't be asking, because you already know the answer to it."

He wasn't yelling at her, but his voice had gotten distinctly louder, sharper. And to be honest, Cuddy was never anything but amused by that tendency of his. For as long as she had known him, he had done this, and it always made her wonder if he thought an increase in decibels somehow made his argument more potent.

Maybe he just thought it would scare her into shutting up.

She didn't really know, but she had news for him either way: whatever the motivation, he was wrong – _period_.

Undeterred, she pushed him further. "You're right. I _do_ know the answer; I know that you're _insane_ and that, in your mind, I have sex with you, so you have the right to snoop –"

"_I'm_ the insane one if that's what you've deduced from this situation?" He made a face that was not unlike the one Rachel made when Cuddy made her eat Brussels sprouts.

"That's right."

He shook his head before setting his book aside. It was a curious situation indeed, the one that lie before him. She was making this all about his issues when really the more interesting aspect of all of this was _her_ baggage. And even if that were simply a matter of opinion, any onlooker would have to agree that it was odd that she was focusing on _his_ sanity and _not_ on what he might have discovered in her desk.

Well, perhaps they wouldn't. But _he_ definitely thought it was curious.

"Are you even listening to me?" Her voice was nothing short of a snarl, but House couldn't help but think that her anger was completely undermined by the fact that she was sitting on the bed in a towel that was just short enough to give him a glimpse of the promise land.

"Not really," he admitted easily. "I'm too busy wondering why you're not worried about what I might have found in your desk." Tossing a hand casually in the air, he added, "Granola bars, keys to the pharmacy, pornography – I could have found a whole slew of things in –"

"If there's pornography in my office, it would be there, because _you_ put it there."

He gave her a pointed look. "Now you're just avoiding the point all together."

"I have nothing to hide."

As soon as the words had been uttered, Cuddy knew that she hardly sounded convincing. It was too perfunctory, too quick to be believed, and if her goal had been to shut House up, talking like that, she knew, had done the exact opposite.

"Really?" He looked at her doubtfully.

She threw her hands up in the air as best as she could while still maintaining hold of her towel. "No, you've caught me. I'm really sixteen and pregnant."

"I'd believe it," he admitted, moving his hands underneath the back of his head as he rested against the headboard. "Your breasts are certainly big and perky enough to –"

"Oh, I'm _so_ glad we're going to turn this conversation into an ode to my cleavage."

"The way you're sitting, I can see your labia," he pointed out. "What the hell else am I supposed to talk about?"

Glancing down at her body, she sighed; she'd been so angry with him, so intent on yelling at him that she hadn't even bothered to get dressed before broaching the subject. And feeling just a little ridiculous for picking a fight while practically naked, Cuddy was determined to remedy that as quickly as possible.

Which was, of course, met with great protest.

As she moved towards her dresser, House said in a remorseful voice, "I wasn't suggesting you should get dressed."

"Too late," she replied with a satisfied smirk. At least now, she wouldn't feel like the only one who was miserable, she told herself as she pulled out gray pajama pants and a black sweatshirt.

House made a noise of disapproval. "The sweatshirt? Guess I won't be getting laid tonight."

"You're just figuring that out?" she asked as she yanked the pajama pants on.

He didn't answer the question, instead preferring to say, "Well, that's fine with me. My hand's looking a little friendlier at the moment anyway." But this time his words were the ones that didn't reach their full potential; because it was at the moment he'd started speaking that Cuddy had taken the towel away from her chest, and, although he was mad, he couldn't deny that her breasts did funny things to him. And that knowledge robbed his voice of the conviction he was feeling everywhere other than his dick.

Yet Cuddy didn't seem to notice.

Oddly enough, she actually seemed to understand the implication of his words and behavior. As she jammed her head through the neck hole of her sweatshirt, she said angrily, "You're mad at _me_?" She scoffed in disgust and didn't even give him a chance to reply before ordering, "Please, tell me what it is that you discovered that has you_ so_ upset."

"Upset? I'm not _upset_. I'm –"

"Just tell me what you found before someone discovered you in my office and made you get out," she ordered in frustration.

He eyed her carefully. "You don't know what you have stashed in your own desk? Or are you just hoping that I completely missed the notice you got about Rachel failing kindergarten?"

The words coming out of his mouth felt like a slap in the face.

Admittedly there was no anger or accusation in his tone; it was an undeniable fact that House had absolutely little to no feelings for Rachel, and he certainly had no interest in her education. So Cuddy knew that he was hardly judging her over the matter.

But _God_, it hurt to hear him state with such clarity Rachel's situation. It hurt so much that Cuddy had to avert her gaze from his penetrating one.

Forcing at least part of her attention on finding her hairbrush, she said quietly, "She's not _failing_." She let out a shaky breath. "They don't _fail_ you."

"But they can recommend that she be held back, which is what they did do."

"Doesn't mean she will be." Her eyes catching sight of the brush she wanted, she stalked over to her bureau and grabbed it. And though she wasn't looking in his direction, she could tell that he was staring at her.

"Yeah, that makes perfect sense," he said doubtfully. "Force the school board to take your kid, even though she didn't meet the cut off date for starting kindergarten, and force them to push her through _again_ when –"

"Did I ask for your opinion?" There was no denying how indignant she sounded as she spun around to face him once more.

But he wasn't going to be deterred by _that_. Had he ever been? He didn't know – or care about – the answer to that question and instead chose to shrug his shoulders. "Of course not. But since when has _that_ mattered?"

Her hands on her hips, she answered the question briskly. "Since you decided that you wanted absolutely nothing to do with Rachel. Since you –"

"Oh, _relax_," he interrupted. She was getting worked up, and he didn't even care all that much about Rachel to begin with. And it was hardly, in his mind, the bigger discovery he'd made while snooping through Cuddy's office. "I don't care what you do with the tater tot. Pass her, fail her – hire her for all I care. God only knows she'd do a better job than half the nursing staff."

Her voice was softer when she responded. "Well… obviously you care on _some_ level if you're this bent out of shape over –"

"Did I say that?" He pretended to go over their conversation in his head. "You asked me to tell you what I found. _You_ surmised – you _assumed_ – that I was, as you put it, upset." She didn't say anything as she tried to remember how the conversation had gone. "I told you that I found out about Rachel. I _never_ said that it was upsetting to me."

Cuddy supposed that there was some logic to that. But she also couldn't ignore the fact that he clearly _was_ bothered by _something._

"Then what else did you find?" she asked. "Obviously, you found something that irritated you."

"You sure about that?"

"Yes," she said with a nod. "You hardly saw any patients, so you're not taking your anger out on me over that. We weren't fighting this morning. You and Wilson are fine." She was vocally going through the list of things that would typically send him spiraling. It was a mercifully short list, but one that frequently created problems for him (and therefore _her_) nonetheless. "So just tell me. All right?"

"What are you doing on Sunday?"

The question made absolutely no sense to her. Well, that wasn't exactly true; she understood what he was saying, but she didn't get _why_. Of course, she wasn't going to tell him that, instead choosing to hide her ignorance with "Not you, I can tell you that much."

He was not amused. "I'm being serious."

"At this point, House? So am I." She was furiously folding her towel, which was stupid, because he knew _that_ she'd be doing laundry in the morning. Unless she'd randomly decided to change her routine, in which case he wanted to know why (there was always a reason).

But when she furiously stuffed the towel into the clothes hamper, House wrote behavior off as little more than her annoying tendency to become irrational. Of course, he wasn't going to _say_ that out loud; she might have been content with her insanity, but he certainly wasn't going to offer proof of his _own_ mental illness by doing something as crazy as saying, "You're crazy."

Instead, he clarified in irritation, "I mean what are your _plans_?"

She shrugged. "I don't have any."

It was a lie. The invitation he'd found, her day planner, the email on her computer – it was all proof that she was lying.

Interesting.

"You don't have anything to do that day."

"Yes," she replied annoyed. "That's what I'm telling you."

And the funny thing was that she didn't _appear_ to be lying then. Obviously she _was_, but there was something about her demeanor that suggested that she wasn't aware of that fact. There was something beneath the irritation that looked in his estimation like earnestness.

But that emotion was fleeting as it gave way to a look of realization. As she climbed into bed next to him, she added dimly, "Oh. _Okay. _Every year Sanford Wells and his wife host a dinner party during Purim for all of the Jewish board members and donors. Since it's my job…" she explained hostilely. "To keep all of those people happy, they invited me – _us_ – to the party, but –"

"And you what? Weren't going to tell me?" he asked with just a touch of accusation; tempted though he was to overdo it with the emotion, he knew that that would only make him seem just as upset as she seemed to think he was.

Yet that appeared to be exactly what she was going to do anyway. As she adjusted her pillows along the headboard, she asked curiously, "Are you _actually_ upset that I didn't let you know that I had been invited to a party I_ knew_ you would have _no_ interest in attending?"

"No." No, that wasn't it at all.

She stopped what she was doing to look at him carefully. "You _are_."

"Is that what I said?" he snapped, shoving the bedding out from underneath him so he could get under the covers. "Cause I don't think that's what I said."

At that point, it was clear that Cuddy was equally perturbed. "If that's not the issue, then _please_ let me know. As fun as this conversation has been…" she said dryly. "I'm really not in the mood to play a _guessing_ game that's going to end with you pretending your Hitler."

He didn't answer the question. "Are you going?"

Although she looked at him as though he were losing his mind, she did, thankfully, answer _his_ question. "Of course. Why does it –"

"So you're going to be religious from now on."

He didn't sound like he was _asking_ her. If anything, Cuddy thought he sounded convinced by his own words. Which wasn't surprising; when was House _not_ convinced of his own genius?

All right, so she knew there were times when he wasn't, when doubt filled him like water in a ship riddled with holes. In those moments, when the fear of failure seemed to be all that he could hold onto, she held onto him as though nothing else in the world mattered. And in those few times she had seen him like that, she had always been reminded why she liked that arrogance in him to begin with; although it often bordered on being annoying, that assurance that he was almost always _eventually_ right was comforting. It made things seem _hopeful_… even if they weren't.

But right now, he was so wrong there was no way he would ever get this right. He was so _wrong_ that it would take millions of years for the light of "eventually right" to dawn on him. If he were left to his own devices anyway, and she had no intention of letting his ignorance affect _her_ any longer.

As she angled her body to face his, she told him coolly, "I _have_ to go. Were you listening to me at all? It's my _job_ to keep those individuals happy and –"

"So that's all this is? Your job?"

House was clearly searching for some sort of reassurance that she didn't know how to give – or want to give in this case. Considering he wasn't even _saying_ what the issue was, considering how he was letting her _flounder_ around as she tried to understand his insanity, she had no desire to make _him_ feel better.

"That's part of it. _ Yes_," she told him irritably.

The way she phrased her answer made him suspicious. "What's the rest of it?"

She rolled her eyes. "Well, I _am_ Jewish, so –"

"So this _is_ about religion." He couldn't (and didn't really try to) hide the disdain in his voice.

And Cuddy immediately picked up on that. "I'm _Jewish_, House. Why is it _surprising_ that I observe a –"

"Oh, so now you're _observing_ Purim. Tell me, what else do you have planned for this weekend of _fun_?"

As soon as the words had left his mouth, she was out of bed and heading toward the bathroom. Her feet practically stomping on the ground, she thought to herself that this was _precisely_ the problem with dating House:

He gave her too many headaches.

Quickly searching for the aspirin in her medicine cabinet, she tried to calm herself down. She tried to remind herself that she'd chosen to be with House for a reason. Years ago, when she'd had the opportunity to be with Lucas, to be with someone who was as uncomplicated as they came, she'd decided to be with House instead. She'd decided to be with the person who she… _loved_.

And even though that meant being with the person she often wanted to _slap_, Cuddy told herself that it was worth it for what she was getting in return.

_God_, that was hard to keep in mind though.

Swallowing the two tablets she managed to scrounge up, she slowly returned to the bedroom. And when she did, House was watching her, his eyes trained on her as though she were a foreign creature.

She ignored the look as she silently got into bed. Part of her hoped he would take the hint and drop the subject all together.

But she should have known better.

"So," he said brightly, the blankets only around her knees. "Suddenly, you're being a good Jew?"

Inwardly she sighed. He knew just what to say to loosen her tongue.

One of her eyebrows raised, she repeated, "'Suddenly'?"

He nodded his head. "First, there was Hanukkah, and now –"

She couldn't help but roll her eyes at where this was headed. "_Two_ holidays that I've celebrated regularly –"

"Didn't do Purim last year."

"Last year, you decided to go to Atlantic City with Wilson," she pointed out. "The year before that, you had a patient and holed yourself up in your office. The year before that, we were fighting, and before that, we weren't together."

Cuddy didn't necessarily enjoy that she could list off the top of her head what had (or in this case _hadn't_) happened the last four years during Purim. Truth be told, it made her sound a little crazy.

But there was no helping it, she supposed; she remembered, because the moments she'd had with Rachel in those last four years had permanently crystallized every event from that time. Her surroundings then coated in a mental resin, it was impossible to forget any of those things that had occurred.

"If you had been _here_, you would have known that this isn't new," she finished.

House, of course, had no idea whether or not she was telling the truth. He guessed that she would almost have to be, considering how much time it would take to construct such an elaborate lie.

But then again, it hardly mattered whether or not it was true. At the moment, the only thing that _mattered_ to him was that Cuddy was participating in this crap _at all_.

"So you have a history of believing in things that aren't real. Good for you," he told her sarcastically. "I'm sure Rachel will really appreciate it when she finds out that it's all a lie."

Cuddy pulled the blankets to her shoulders before turning away from him. Her dark hair spilling out on the pillow as she got comfortable, she simply told him, "Good night, House."

He couldn't see her face from this angle; he would have needed to sit up straighter to do that. In this case though, he didn't need to see her face. She was lying on her side, thus giving him a view of her back. And even though she was wearing an oversized sweatshirt, he could see the stiffness of her spine and muscles. He could tell that she was tense, _angry_.

And it was proof that he should stop, that he should let it go.

But he couldn't.

"What, no defense?" Cuddy said nothing, so he continued. "You're not going to try and convince me that Jesus loves the little children?"

Her head shifted on the pillow a little bit, but still, she didn't speak. Which surprised him, to be quite honest, because he would have expected her to say _something_ – even if it were just a "shut up." But she just stayed silent.

"Oh come on," he said insistently. "I didn't even use a Jewish reference there! You don't have anything to say to that?"

When she still didn't respond, House knew he needed to recalibrate his approach. Clearly she wasn't going to be provoked into reason, and he knew he needed to try something else. But what?

The answer came to him almost immediately: placate her, try to understand – something along those lines. The precise way to proceed was unclear to him. Or at least, the exact things he needed to say to get the result he wanted were unknown to him. And that wasn't all that surprising.

Almost every day of his life, House was wrangling somebody, trying to convince _someone_ to let him do something. But in most of those cases, he could railroad them with reason or the most basic forms of manipulation.

With Cuddy though… none of that was going to work. And instead, he would need to be… _tactful_ and _kind_ – two things he very rarely was these days.

Still, it was worth a shot. If it got him out of having to deal with Cuddy's apparent religious beliefs, it was absolutely worth it.

So with that thought in mind, he slowly got under the covers and spooned up against her. He didn't want to go too fast; doing that would only make her more suspicious than she surely already was. Obviously there was no avoiding her suspicion all together. She was too smart to think that the body pressed against hers and the arm around her waist were there for much besides an answer.

Pressing a light kiss against her neck, he asked her quietly, "Mad?" She shrugged but said nothing, and House was once _again_ forced to continue. "Tell me that this is actually something you believe in. Tell me that you seriously believe that the world was created in a couple days and –"

"And what? You'll leave me alone? I doubt it," she interrupted, her silence finally broken. "And don't even _try_ the I'm-actually-interested-in-what-you-think-about-the-universe routine," she warned darkly. "We both know you couldn't care less."

When he didn't protest, Cuddy knew that that was the truth: he didn't care. Not really anyway, because it was only incidental to _his_ belief, which was that religion was pointless; the exact nature of her Judaism hardly mattered after that, because she was already an idiot in his mind.

"I don't care _what_ you believe," he agreed, his tone harder than it had been moments previously. "I just want to know _why_."

Truth be told, she didn't want to explain herself. God only knew she didn't _need_ to do that; after beating around the bush, he certainly hadn't _earned_ an explanation.

But…

Maybe…

Maybe giving House some context would help.

Perhaps he would be more understanding if she were to tell him that her attachment to her heritage, her insistence on passing it on to her own child had _nothing_ to do with God.

But that seemed like a long shot.

A really long shot.

And ultimately, it just didn't seem like a risk worth taking. Showing him that part of herself when he might not understand… it didn't seem worth it. There already seemed to be too many reasons to break up with him, too many reasons to walk away. She loved him, but there were too many days where that seemed like an impossible task.

She didn't want this to be another reason, another day, another doubt in her mind.

So she decided that it was time to end the conversation once and for all. Her voice firm, she told him, "House, you can either stay here this weekend and _behave_ yourself or you can go stay with Wilson until Monday. It's your choice."

He offered her no immediate answer. He probably had no idea what to say. Especially when he had no idea what behaving himself would entail (she'd only been forced to admit to the party), he probably didn't want to commit to anything right away.

Because of that, it came as no surprise to feel him exhale warmly on the back of her neck and to hear him ask, "And what _exactly_ would I have to do?"

"What I tell you to do," she snapped back. "Go to the party. Keep your thoughts on God and Jews to _yourself_. Come with me to Rachel's dance recital –"

"That's not even during Purim," House whined.

"It'll be Purim somewhere" was her cold response.

And the more he thought about it, the more he understood why she would insist on him doing that. Aside from the fact that she was _always_ pushing him towards Rachel, Cuddy was also probably aware that having him watch the little hippopotamus dance was easier than trying to explain why he'd sat that event out but participated in everything _else_ that weekend. So he could see why she would make that part of her list of requirements.

But that didn't mean he _liked_ it.

Truthfully, there were many things House wouldn't have minded doing for the woman whose ass was pressed against him right now. There were many, many things he would do for that booty – too many to count, he told himself. Watching Rachel and her fellow crotch fruit dance around for however long though…

He wasn't sure that would be one of them.

Still, he supposed he could work with what Cuddy was offering. "If I do what you want," he said slowly. "What do I get in return?"

"Why would I _give_ you something for being respectful of how I choose to raise _my_ daughter?" She didn't give him a chance to respond; somehow she knew that the point would never be stomached, and so she capitulated almost instantly. "Fine. Lets pretend I agree to this. How much sex are you going to want in return?"

She could feel his smile on the nape of her neck and his hand running along her stomach up toward her breast. "So smart _and_ sexy," he practically cooed. And though part of her was sure that he wasn't being sarcastic, another side was suspicious nevertheless.

As his thumb brushed against her nipple, she warned him, "I'm serious. How much time am I going to have to spend on my back?"

He snickered. "You want an exact number of hours?"

"Just an idea of what you have in mind," she said tiredly.

He gave her an immediate response. "I was thinking: you do what I want _in_ the bedroom; I'll do what you want outside of it."

The words came out of his mouth easily, so easily in fact that, if she weren't paying attention, his terms probably wouldn't seem all that bad.

_Okay, _so they _weren't_ all that bad.

There were certainly worse things than having sex with House; _most_ things were worse than having sex with him, she corrected. And yet she still felt… _annoyed_ at the whole idea. Why should _she_ have to give him _anything_?

It was such a childish question.

_Such_ a childish question.

And she didn't know if it was the shame she suddenly felt or the knowledge that she wouldn't be getting a better offer that made her agree, but she did. "Fine. Sex for the weekend."

House squeezed the breast he'd been palming. "Any way I want it. Anywhere I want it," he told her, clarifying his terms.

She practically barked out, "I said _fine_."

And with those angry words, the deal was made. Neither spoke right away, but they didn't need to; the knowledge that they'd made this hellish bargain at all weighed heavily on both.

Eventually though, House, needing to pretend that his weekend _wasn't_ going to _suck_, said, "So… wanna have sex?"

"No."

He pulled her body closer to his. "Come on, Cuddy. You like make up sex…"

"Make up sex?" She made a noise that was something between a scoff and a laugh. "I'm still _mad_ at you, you _idiot_."

But he wasn't dissuaded. "Angry sex then. I'll let you –"

"House." She sounded completely fed up; she _was_ fed up, and so she was entirely serious when she said, "You are giving me a migraine, so I will have sex with you right now if you just _stop_ talking."

He knew how to take the hint. Within seconds, his hand tunneled underneath her heavy sweatshirt, so he could greedily cup her breasts. Her skin was hot from the fleece-lined top, and the way his fingers plucked at her nipples made her feel even warmer.

But given all of the fighting she had done with House, Cuddy couldn't quite manage to enjoy it. And so, as his lips descended to her neck, she told him, "Do me a favor – just use me and get off, all right?"

He stopped what he was doing. "Really?" he asked surprised.

"Yeah."

"Foreplay?"

She shrugged. "Skip it."

It was all the permission he needed.

Quickly he sat up and pushed the covers off of their bodies. And he was about to spoon against her once more when he realized there might be an issue. "Think we're going to need lube?"

As soon as the question had been asked, Cuddy's hands disappeared into the waistband of her pants. She shoved the bottoms down to her knees with as much vigor as House had used with the sheets. As she kicked her way out of her pajamas, she told him, "No. We'll be fine."

His gaze instinctively trained itself on her bare ass and thighs.

_Hell._

It felt as though whatever blood was in his body had instantly shot to his cock. She was so toned, so _perfect_ in his eyes that she never failed to make him hard, never failed to make him want her. So much so that it didn't matter that they'd been fighting only minutes earlier. It didn't matter that he had made this deal with her, didn't matter that she was constantly taking him farther and farther from the godless, childless life he'd always envisioned for himself.

In that moment, all that mattered was _her_, her _body_.

And he couldn't resist touching her.

He cupped her ass, his palm running along the soft curve of her backside. His fingertips lightly danced around her bared hipbone, and he silently marveled at how pale her skin had become in the winter months. She probably hated the lack of color, of course, but for House, it was an unexpected turn on.

It just made her look… _pristine_ – virginal and untouched, and he felt the overwhelming desire to touch her, mark her, make her his.

Leaning down, he kissed the upturned part of her bottom. His nose pressed against her, he could smell her desire, and knowing that she wanted him made him want _her_ so much more.

His voice hoarse, he ordered, "Pull up your shirt."

She smiled a little, knowing that she was getting to him. It was so easy to turn him on. And though she knew the reverse was also true, at the moment, she liked seeing the desire in his eyes. She liked knowing that she was the cause.

Her gaze trained on him, she slowly slid her sweatshirt up to her neck. She used her chin to keep the material in place, which was, admittedly uncomfortable. Yet that discomfort dissipated when she saw his eyes widen at the sight of her bare breasts. Impressed with herself, she watched him lick his lips, watched him swallow hard. And she wasn't surprised when he confessed, "_God_, I want you."

She nodded her head, her sweatshirt slipping a little. "I know."

He seemed a little frozen, so she reached for him. As she pulled him back down toward the bed, he was tempted to tell her that he loved her. After all, who else would have put up with _any_ of his crap and still be willing to have sex with him afterwards?

Well, he knew the answer: no one.

_Nobody_ other than Cuddy would do this for him.

And he knew too that, if he didn't make this work with her, he would never be with anyone. It was her or nobody, and he also knew which one of those options was the preferable one.

Yet, as he kissed her neck and fumbled to pull his dick out of his pajama pants, he stayed silent. He understood all too well that intimacy in sex had the tendency to seem false. To confess his love now would be to open himself up to the possibility of her rejection.

No, he corrected instantly; it wouldn't be a _possibility_. It would be the _inevitability_, because she would never believe him in this context. And frankly that would have upset him if not for the fact that he knew he wouldn't have believed her either if she'd been the one to say it. So he kept his mouth shut as he eased his body up against hers.

They were lying side by side once more now. His erection was trapped between them, pleasantly so, the feel of her warm ass against his most intimate flesh a nice one. _Definitely_ a nice one, but also one that made him feel crazy with the need to screw her.

Cuddy must have picked up on that, because she shifted her body then to accommodate him. Moving her top leg back and up over his hip, she gave him the space he would need to penetrate her. "Bendy," he murmured in approval.

"You're welcome," she told him dryly. "I do the yoga just for you."

He smirked at her sarcasm, but the light mood between them didn't last. Stroking his penis once with his hand, he then eagerly guided himself toward her moist opening. She sighed her approval as he pushed himself into her, and quiet, save for their labored breathing, filled the air around them.

There was a brief moment of calm between them, a short instant where just being inside of her, just being connected to her like this was enough. He could feel her slick muscles clench every so often around him, her warmth spreading to him, consuming him.

One of his arms burrowed under her body, so he could reach around and cup her breast once more. His other hand gripped her hip tightly for traction, making sure that when he pulled out and pumped himself back into her, she would be there, right where he wanted her.

Everything where he wanted it, he rocked his hips away from her.

The movement made her moan quietly, and he took that to mean one thing: she'd told him to just hurry up and get off, yes, but she was already worked up enough that her own orgasm was likely. Unavoidable even, if he were to play his cards right.

Knowing that, he pulled out completely, much to Cuddy's dismay.

She hadn't really been interested in sex when he'd proposed it. But now that she'd had a chance to see how much he wanted her, now that she'd felt him inside of her and could _still_ feel the head of his penis parting her labia, she _wanted_ it – _him_.

"House…" It sounded more like a plea than she would have wanted it to. Yet it seemed to be exactly what he wanted to hear; as soon as his name had been uttered, he pushed himself back inside of her, her pussy suddenly full once more.

He groaned a little in her ear before asking her, "How in the hell do you get _so_ wet?" She didn't answer the what she assumed was a rhetorical question and instead craned her head back to kiss him.

As her lips met his, he began to rock back and forth against her. The grip on her breast tightened ever so slightly, two of his fingers plucking her nipple until it had hardened to his liking. To_ her_ liking, she amended as she felt little waves of pleasure rippling throughout her body.

His tongue gently rubbed along hers, their mouths mimicking the pace the rest of their bodies had set.

It was slow, the way he moved inside of her. They were spooned against each other, and his thigh coupled with her leg draped on top of him limited the amount of thrusting he could do. But House knew he was getting the job done. He could feel how wet she was getting.

From this angle, he was rubbing her in all the right places. Each thrust, though short, stimulated her g-spot, and the feel of her ass pressed against his thighs and lower stomach (even through his t-shirt) was doing a lot for him.

_A lot_.

With each jerk of his hips, he moaned into her mouth, his desire quickly getting the better of him.

And he wasn't alone in that at all. As he became more incessant, so did she. His balls slapping against her, the feathery brush of his pubic hair and pajama pants against her half-naked body – it was making her feverish with need.

He tore his mouth away from hers, breathing through his nose no longer enough to sustain him. Pushing into her, rocking against her over and over and over, he gasped for breath, for _release_. His palm was sweaty against her hip, and his fingers dug into her harder to maintain his grip on her.

Egging him on, Cuddy began to thrust her own hips in time with his, allowing him to penetrate her further. And the change in angle, he recognized, was going to be his undoing.

He buried his face in her dark hair, which was still damp from her bath. "Close," he warned her. Her slick muscles squeezed him encouragingly, her body silently giving him permission that he didn't want.

Closing his eyes, he said, "Don't. I – I'll –"

"It's okay," she told him quietly.

He wanted to wait.

He _really_ did.

But he couldn't.

The hand on her hip shot down to the place their bodies were joined in a last-ditch effort to please her. His fingers parted her wet folds, and he eagerly sought out her clitoris. But he'd just started to rub his thumb along her warm body when he felt the heat well within him.

He was at that point of no return now.

And even if he wanted to hold off, he couldn't do it any longer.

The desire to come all consuming, his thrusts became more erratic, harder, faster. His pants and t-shirt were becoming slick with sweat, the material sticking to him uncomfortably.

But he didn't care about that.

At all.

Cuddy was moaning her approval loudly beside him, a low and guttural "yes" escaping her parted lips.

If either had been in their right mind, they would have considered the possibility of waking Rachel. Yet they obviously were _not_ thinking clearly; Rachel was of no concern to them at that moment. The only thing they were considering was the motion between them and the heat it was creating.

House thrust into her a couple more times as roughly as he could. Every muscle in his body strained to be closer to Cuddy. And when she pushed herself back against him, that was the second he came. For a brief moment in time, he felt as though someone had set fire to him, a hot sensation that did not burn filling his cock. And then it was gone, passing through him, and into her, a noisy half-groan, half-sob from him bursting into the air as his fluids filled her body.

He kept thrusting out of instinct, and whether it was that or the sensation of his semen inside of her that did the trick, she didn't know.

Or care.

As her own orgasm took her by surprise, she had not a concern in the world. Her muscles squeezed him hard, rhythmically, and though it certainly wasn't the best sex they'd ever had, Cuddy would have been lying if she'd said she hadn't enjoyed it. The warm feeling of satisfaction tingling from her fingertips to her toes, she knew all too well that this had been _nice_.

They never had _nice_ sex, she thought as House practically wheezed in her ear. Passionate, angry, dominating, quick – the kind of sex they had usually could be described by one of those words. But as she calmed down and became more aware of her senses, she could see that this was different for _them_.

It really had been _nice_ sex, the kind of sex you probably had when you'd been married for a long time. It was… _domestic_ and sweet, reassuring in a way that hadn't required too much emotional upheaval. And House would naturally consider that terrifying and unacceptable (which was why she didn't tell him). But for Cuddy, the act of normalcy was a welcome change.

Slowly getting out of bed to fetch the pajama pants that had fallen to the floor during the act, she could see how welcome it really was. She couldn't deny that she loved the more lively aspects to her relationship with House. Although she didn't _love_ the fighting, she _did_ enjoy the challenge and the way they forced one another to be as present and in the moment as they knew how.

But truth be told, she'd always wondered how long that could last. She'd wondered how long she could force Rachel to live in that kind of environment before Cuddy would need to make a choice.

As she put her pants on and headed toward the bathroom, she felt relieved that she might have been turning the corner with House. That there might be _some_ sort of domesticity in their future, that there was the _possibility_ that they could be a family made her feel more hopeful than she'd ever been in this relationship.

And when, moments later, she returned to House's side, her face burrowed into his now bare chest (she guessed his t-shirt had gotten too warm for him), she smiled into his skin. And when he asked, "Mad?" the answer was one she freely gave him:

"No."

As her eyes fluttered shut, she could only hope that she'd still be able to say the same thing after this weekend.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. To Temo, avid, tuckp3, red blood, DoctorLisaCuddy, Neelie2009, and ooh_a_jellybean, I thank you for the encouragement.

On another note, this chapter also has explicit sex that features anal play. If that bothers you, you are free to turn away now.

_Disclaimer: It's not mine._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Two: Under Duress**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

It seemed like she'd just fallen asleep when she was awoken by a hand pressing into her stomach. A dissatisfied groan eased out of her throat, and Cuddy reluctantly opened her eyes; she was exhausted, in desperate need of sleep, but she also knew that whoever had woken her up was unlikely to go away any time soon. Whether it was House, Rachel, a burglar, rapist – _whatever_ – there was no chance of going back to sleep now.

Sighing at that knowledge, Cuddy slowly shifted her gaze downward. Immediately she spotted the culprit: a worried five-year-old Rachel who was trying her best to wade through the tangle of limbs to get to her mother. She was clearly trying to avoid House, her eyes constantly on his gangly body as she crawled along the length of the bed.

The sight was not a surprising one; ever since Marina had died in a car accident, Rachel had become increasingly clingy, increasingly_ plagued_ by nightmares, which meant that it wasn't unusual to wake up to her trying to join House and her mother in bed.

Well, Cuddy corrected – trying to join _her_. As evidenced by the way she was moving on the bed, Rachel had no desire to be anywhere near House. He was too scary for that, too _intimidating_ for Rachel to seek him out for _anything_.

No doubt that he wanted it that way, of course. His way of dealing with Rachel was to pretend that their lives were completely separate. They were two moons orbiting the same planet, but in his mind, never did the twain meet. In that, there wasn't any denial that Rachel existed, which Cuddy supposed she should be grateful for. He really could have pretended that her daughter didn't exist, and that he was willing to acknowledge her presence _at all _should have felt like some sort of victory.

But it didn't.

If anything, Cuddy thought this was worse. It _was_ worse. Because the way things were now, House could sit on the couch with her daughter, watch cartoons with her, _talk_ to her, and feel nothing. He could have opinions on how Cuddy was raising Rachel, but at the end of the day, he didn't care. He _really_ didn't.

At first Cuddy had told herself that he was just uncomfortable, that he simply needed time to warm up to the whole idea of being a… father figure. And considering how likely it had seemed that their relationship would fail, she hadn't been all that upset about his reticence. Truth be told, she'd been rather appreciative of his unwillingness to bond with Rachel right away.

It had felt safer for him to do that.

Safer for whom, Cuddy hadn't known.

Yet as time had worn on, that feeling had dissipated. Whatever good she'd seen in his reluctance had been replaced with the realization that he wasn't being _kind_ – not even remotely so – with his actions. Instead of trying to protect, he was merely trying to avoid.

And looking back now, she knew that that should have been all the warning she needed. It should have been proof enough that he would never truly adjust to life with a child in it.

But it hadn't been, and she'd simply told herself that he would eventually come around, that he would _eventually_ let himself care for Rachel. Now that seemed like wishful thinking at _best_, but back then, it hadn't seemed all that crazy; after all, how long had it taken him to accept his feelings for Cuddy to begin with? How long had it taken for him to _act_ on those feelings and for them both to trust that those emotions wouldn't evaporate into thin air one day?

It really hadn't seemed all that unreasonable to think that things could be the same way with Rachel.

Here they all were though, years after the fact, and nothing had changed since then. Rachel was in need, wanting only her mother, while House slept on, oblivious to everything. His arm was slung around Cuddy, his fingers warmly pressed against her flat stomach. And with her head on his bare chest, she realized that she was still the protective barrier between her lover and her daughter.

Nothing had changed.

Nothing except for the fact that Cuddy could no longer imagine being without House. As pathetic as it sounded, she'd been with him too long, had spent too many mornings waking up to him and too many nights falling asleep beside him, and she couldn't even fathom what her life would be like without him in it, without him _here_.

She didn't want to.

Admittedly that made her sound awful, but it was the truth nevertheless. They'd spent so much effort into creating this relationship that, as a matter of pride, it would have destroyed her to realize that it was for naught.

Maybe it already had been though…

A sudden kick to the knee made Cuddy forget all about that, however. Rachel was still trying to cross the length of the bed, and in her attempts to avoid House without making any noise, she was becoming clumsier in other areas. And Cuddy, having had enough of that, reached out for her daughter.

"Come here," she whispered in a voice that was deeper than normal. Catching Rachel under the armpits, she pulled her daughter up until the little girl could bury her head in Cuddy's shoulder. It was by no means an easy task; Rachel was only five, but her weight was certainly not that of the average five year old.

However, Cuddy didn't have the energy or the desire to think about that right now, so instead, she distracted herself by asking, "Why are you awake?"

Rachel shrugged, wordlessly popping her thumb in her mouth. It was a habit Cuddy had tried to break to no avail. Bribes and every aversion tactic in the book had been employed at one point or another; cookies, toys, the promise of a puppy… it hadn't worked – just as the reverse psychology and the "No Bite" deterrent Cuddy had painted on Rachel's fingers hadn't. Nothing had, because the little girl just refused to let go. So it came as no surprise that, when Cuddy wordlessly pulled the thumb out of Rachel's mouth, she shoved it back in in no time. They'd already spent hours _easily_ doing this, and with no end in sight, the tug of war was bound to continue for many more.

For now though, Cuddy was willing to take a break from that. She was exhausted, and the sound of House's slow and peaceful breathing was only reminding her what she was missing at the moment. Needless to say, she couldn't have cared less right then and there about Rachel's bad habits. Not when the desire to get her to go back to sleep weighed heavily on Cuddy's mind.

So instead of chastising, she tried to soothe. Instead of fighting, she simply ran her fingers through Rachel's overgrown-and-in-desperate-need-of-a-trim hair. Pressing a kiss to her daughter's forehead, Cuddy asked, "Did you have a bad dream?"

Rachel shook her head, burying her face into the fabric of Cuddy's sweatshirt.

"Did you have an accident?"

It was clear that Rachel resented the question. Immediately she nearly shouted, "No."

"Shh," Cuddy told her gently. The last thing she wanted to do was wake House up; he was the one variable in this equation that could take this situation from banal to unbearable. Although truthfully they were probably already there, because Rachel's response instinctively made Cuddy believe that there were wet sheets and pajamas just waiting to be washed.

Out of habit, she lightly patted Rachel's bottom, but nothing was wet. Of course, whether or not these pants were the same Cuddy had put her in a couple of hours ago… she had no idea. But she supposed she would find out eventually, and because of that, she refocused her attention on finding out why her daughter was awake. "Why are you up, baby?"

Rachel rubbed at her eyes tiredly but whined loudly, "Don't wanna sleep."

Underneath them, House groaned a little. He was clearly waking up from all the noise, and if he were to become completely roused, sleep would be out of the question for everyone for at least another hour. Because if he were to wake up, there would be a fight; Rachel and House would take digs at one another, and someone at _some _point would become more frustrated than usual, and things would be said, and…

Cuddy had no desire to deal with that.

So she tried to prevent that from happening as best as she could. Shifting her body off of House's with Rachel in her arms, Cuddy kept scooting until they were on her side of the bed. Hopefully it would be enough.

"But you have to. It's nighttime," she explained in a soft voice. "That means it's time for bed."

"No."

Cuddy nodded her head to emphasize her point. "It is, and you definitely need your sleep for your recital tomorrow."

Under normal circumstances, Rachel would have said something back. Whether she agreed or not, she would have replied. On her own she was a talkative child, one who'd never met a thought she didn't wish to share. But also, witnessing her mother's relationship with House had made Rachel combative, argumentative. Well, _more_ argumentative, Cuddy corrected; any child Rachel's age would have been exploring boundaries, becoming more of an individual.

In this case though, it was more than that. Rachel saw the way House and Cuddy treated one another and believed that it was normal, that it was how you were supposed to treat _everyone_. And the thing was that, although Cuddy didn't think there was anything truly objectionable about her relationship with House, she knew that others certainly had, did… would.

The reasons were obvious. They worked together; he was an addict; he'd been institutionalized in the past; she had a kid. But the biggest strike against them was their so-called lack of respect for one another, and Cuddy had been told that so many times that she was anything but unaware of that perception.

People saw the way they fought, the insults they hurled toward one another. People saw the way he would objectify her and the way they would hurt and humiliate each other, and everyone seemed to assume that their relationship was a resentful one.

However, it definitely wasn't. Although it probably couldn't constitute a normal relationship, Cuddy knew that they loved one another, respected one another. And that was how they could allow themselves to act the way they did. Because in the back of their minds, there was always an appreciation, always a sense that nobody else would _ever_ care or forgive them as much as the other already did.

And in the end their dynamic worked for them – far better than any attempt at being "normal" ever had. But there was no denying that it didn't necessarily make Rachel a sweet little girl.

In this instance though, she wasn't saying anything in reaction to Cuddy's words, and that could only mean that Cuddy had touched on something unknowingly.

She wanted to groan at the idea of having to handle a problem now but didn't. Though she had, by now, figured out that her child wasn't going to go to bed anytime soon, Cuddy didn't exactly see the point in complaining about it – even if only to herself. It wouldn't bring slumber to her any sooner.

So, brushing a long strand of hair out of her daughter's face, she instead asked, "Are you scared about dancing tomorrow?" Rachel shook her head, but Cuddy could feel the way her child tensed at the mere mention of the recital.

It was proof enough that she was trying to hide the fact that she was nervous.

And the irony of the dynamic between Rachel and House struck Cuddy hard in that instance. They could barely stand one another, but _God_ they were similar in so many regards. Maybe not in intelligence or looks or anything like that, but they were both incredibly prone to being ashamed of their feelings. They were both slow to open up and even slower to realize that their acting out meant _everyone_ knew precisely what was tormenting them.

It should have been enough to build some sort of bridge between them. Perhaps it would have taken Rachel longer, because she didn't have the same ability to comprehend her own actions, much less someone else's. But _House_ – he should have seen the similarities. He should have noticed just how alike they could be. Hell, he probably _did_ notice it, and it should have been enough for him to initiate some sort of relationship with her.

But it wasn't, and he didn't, so now Cuddy was left to console her daughter while he lie next to them both without a care in the world.

Then again, what else was new?

Sighing Cuddy said, "Rachel, you don't have anything to worry about. You're going to be fantastic tomorrow."

It was a lie.

A complete and utter lie.

She would deny thinking this if asked, of course, and she absolutely planned on smacking House if he said something similar. But the truth was that Rachel probably wouldn't be all that good. She tried _very_ hard to be as good as the other girls in her dance class (and they weren't that great either), but she just didn't have the coordination or body for it.

House had brought up the possibility of Rachel having slight delays in her physical development. And Cuddy couldn't write it off completely, though she desperately wanted to. Because the fact of the matter was that Rachel had spent the last weeks she should have spent in the womb on the floor of an abandoned house just waiting for someone to find her, _love_ her.

It was impossible to say how long Rachel had spent alone, lying on that dirty floor, before that homeless couple had found her – just as it was impossible to say what they had fed her or how any of it had affected her development. Whether her clumsiness was something she would grow out of or something more permanent, nobody really knew at this point. Not her doctor, not House, not Cuddy herself.

But one thing was absolutely certain: whatever the issue, it probably meant that Rachel wasn't going to be the best dancer at the recital tomorrow. Granted, all of the children were pretty terrible. Half of them were too busy picking their noses or twirling their hair to pay attention, and, having seen more than her fair share of these productions, Cuddy knew that Rachel wouldn't be the only one falling on her ass tomorrow.

Naturally though, Cuddy couldn't say that, so she lied instead. And for a brief moment, she thought that maybe Rachel didn't believe her. The little girl was seemingly shaking her head, but the quickness of the motion made Cuddy realize that Rachel was actually wiping her runny nose on Cuddy's sweatshirt. "Oh, honey, don't do that," she said with disgust, her hand instinctively reaching for the box of tissues on the nightstand.

She had to practically pry Rachel's face away from her shirt and ordered her, once the Kleenex was under her nose, "Blow."

It was the sound that finally made House speak up.

Disgusted and annoyed all at once, he said, "Ah yes, turning the bed into a Petri dish. I always heard nothing made for a peaceful slumber like lying in a sea of _mucus_."

Cuddy wiped Rachel's nose one last time before reaching for the hand sanitizer she kept on her nightstand for such purposes. After throwing away the tissue and cleaning her hands, she was about to tell him that he was being overly dramatic.

But Rachel beat her to it.

The second he opened his mouth, she snapped her head around to face him. Her chubby hands curled into fists, she propped herself up on them, making Cuddy hiss as wrist bones were shoved into various parts of her chest.

House was ready to say something about King Kong scaling the Empire State Building when Rachel asked snottily, "Why are _you_ here?" It was clearly a rhetorical question, because she added quickly, "Go away."

Cuddy instantly admonished her, "Hey! We don't –"

"You smell," Rachel continued, clearly not paying attention to anything her mother was trying to tell her. House found this particularly unfortunate, because Rachel's insults were terrible. She wanted to be mean, but she lacked the ability to be that. She had neither the vocabulary nor the observation skills to say anything particularly hurtful. And that meant that her insults were more of a nuisance to deal with than anything else.

Almost as though she were trying to prove that point, she added, "You're _naked_."

He scoffed. "I'm wearing pants."

"Are _not_."

"Are –"

"Both of you _stop_ it," Cuddy interrupted loudly. "I'm not going to referee a fight between you two."

But Rachel was in no mood to listen. Her little pig nose scrunched in disgust, she told House, "I hate you_._"

House wanted to tell her that he didn't exactly like her very much either, but he refrained. Although Cuddy never said it, he _knew_ that, deep down, she hoped that he would view Rachel as… a daughter? someone he cared for?

To be honest, he had no idea how deep Cuddy's delusions went; she tried to hide it as best as she could, so it was impossible to say just how involved she wanted him in all of this. But no matter the label she'd secretly assigned to him, House knew that it would absolutely crush her to hear him say that he hated Rachel.

And maybe he shouldn't have cared about Cuddy's feelings. Maybe he should have satisfied his own dickish nature instead. He was certainly tempted to, but for whatever reason, he was willing to let his pride take the hit on this one. He didn't love the rhinoceros of a child glaring at him, but he did love (he guessed) the rhino's mommy. And if he could keep his mouth shut and let Cuddy come to realize on her own how he felt about the kid… he thought that would be better.

In the very least, he wouldn't have to deal with her reaction now. And by keeping quiet, he was making sure that Cuddy focused all of her attention on her daughter.

Which was precisely what she did. "_Rachel_," she snapped. "You do _not_ talk like that." The tone of her voice left no room for discussion, and the kid at least had the decency to look contrite. "Now, _apologize_ to House, so I can take you back to your bed."

Rachel frowned deeply, her lower lip quivering. "Don't go to my bed," she said sadly, several crucial words being dropped from the sentence.

That wasn't a rare occurrence either. House tried to ignore her existence as best as he could, but he must not have been very good at it, because he knew that when Rachel was nervous or scared or tired, she had a habit of mangling her English. Syllables, even whole words, were forgotten, and though, in those times, being clear was of utmost importance, she seemed to be incapable of saying what she meant.

Luckily for her, everyone in this bed right now had been around her long enough to understand what she wanted to say – she didn't want to sleep in her own bed. But Cuddy wasn't ready to indulge her daughter just yet.

"Apologize, Rachel," she told her in a softer voice.

Rachel clearly didn't want to. She hesitated to say anything at all, and when she did, she sounded put upon. But eventually she did look over at House to say, "Sorry."

For Cuddy, it was good enough. She could make her daughter say the words, but she could only go so far as to make sure the words were sincere. And quite frankly, it was too late, and she was too tired to press the matter further.

"Okay. Time for bed," she announced, rolling onto her side and taking Rachel with her.

At this point, Cuddy was content to let Rachel stay here. It wasn't exactly the optimal situation, but by the time Rachel was in her own bed, by the time Cuddy got her calmed down and asleep, sleep for herself would be impossible. She would have been awake for too long; it would be too late, and chances were she'd end up spending what little night was left drinking a cup of tea and catching up on paperwork.

On the other hand, Rachel couldn't stay precisely where she was; she was too heavy to lie completely on Cuddy, and the way her elbows kept digging into Cuddy's ribs was making the experience all the more painful.

Having had enough of the uncomfortable position, Cuddy tried to situate them both side by side. But Rachel didn't understand this and whined, "_No_, don't wanna go –"

"Stop whining," Cuddy ordered firmly. "Or I _will_ put you back in your own bed."

"Yeah," House piped up judgmentally. "_That's_ not going to make her the world's biggest co-dependant or –"

"Shut up," Cuddy snapped, glancing back at him briefly before focusing her attention on Rachel once more.

Carefully tucking her daughter in, Cuddy told her gently, "Go to sleep." Rachel silently shifted on the bed, her dark hair spilling onto her cheeks. Exhausted, she fell asleep to the feel of her mother's fingers pushing the long strands out of her tiny face.

Cuddy stayed exactly as she was for several moments; there was something too peaceful about watching her only child sleep to turn away. The way her dark eyelashes rested against her plump, pale cheeks, the way she would occasionally sigh contentedly – it was a sight that reaffirmed everything Cuddy had had to do to get to this point in her life.

Losing Joy had been so painful that at the time it had seemed as though parenthood weren't worth the cost of admission. She'd been so convinced of that in fact that if Rachel hadn't practically fallen in her lap…

Cuddy wouldn't have tried again.

But lying here now with her daughter just inches away from her, she could see that giving up would have been a mistake. She could see just how much she would have regretted making that choice.

Perhaps sensing that she was thinking about just how much she _enjoyed_ being a mother, House rolled away from her then. The movement a reminder that he was still awake, Cuddy turned back over onto her back to see what he was doing.

At that moment, he was half out of the bed. One of her hands instinctively reaching over to rub his bare back, she asked him, "What are you doing?"

"Getting my shirt," he explained, reaching down to grab the article with clothing he'd hastily discarded after they'd had sex.

Cuddy frowned. "Because of what Rachel said?"

Sitting back up, he shot her a dirty look. "Seriously?" Was she really under the impression that he was so easily wounded that a five year old's words could hurt him?

But apparently she was, because she asked, "Are you okay?"

"You _really_ think that I'm upset because she said I smelled?" he asked her, as she pulled the shirt on.

Cuddy shook her head. "She said she hated you."

"Yes, she did," he agreed.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure what he should tell her. To brush off Rachel's words quickly was tempting, but doing it too quickly or too forcefully would either make Cuddy doubt him _or_ hate him. And he had no desire to deal with either reaction.

"And that doesn't upset you?" she asked quietly.

Looking at her carefully, House could tell that she was seriously making sure that he was okay. Which he would have laughed at if it weren't so pathetic.

"If I say yes, will you let me stick my face in your boobs?"

"No."

"Then no," he told her breezily. "I'm not upset at all."

For whatever reason, she didn't look convinced. "House…"

"I'm fine," he insisted as he settled underneath the covers once more.

For a brief moment, Cuddy looked at him as though she didn't want to let the matter go. Her eyes searching his for some sort of tell, she was obviously hoping that he would use her silence as an opportunity to confess about how Rachel hating him made him want to cry. Or something equally unlikely and lame.

And when he _didn't_ do that, she sighed. Confessing, she explained, "I just… I hope you realize that Rachel's opinion isn't one I share."

He smirked. "I had gotten that impression, yeah."

She smiled a little but said nothing. The look they were sharing was enough for them both.

Eventually though, she broke the silence. Sighing once more, she shook her head. "All right," she capitulated. Patting her chest once, she explained, "You wanted to put your face in my breasts?"

As fast as his leg would allow him to, he flipped over onto his stomach and onto her. A childish "weeee" escaped his throat as he buried his face into the soft fabric of her sweatshirt. One of his hands racing to cup one of her breasts, he told her, "You really do have a great pair."

Her fingertips were raking through his hair, but her words were a less tender "So you like to tell me."

"I mean it," he told her honestly. "We break up, I'm taking Patty and Selma with me."

"I really wish you wouldn't give my breasts _names_."

"Why not? If I could, I'd erect a statue –"

"To my breasts?" she asked doubtfully.

He rolled his eyes and looked up at her, his chin digging into her chest. "_Again_. Why not?"

Sighing Cuddy told him, "If you really think that's a good idea, you're in more need of sleep than I thought."

"Ask me again tomorrow." Nevertheless, he laid his head back down on her chest, and she took that to mean that he was willing to concede that he was tired… if not entirely wrong about the quality of her boobs.

Following his lead, she didn't say anything in response. Glancing over at Rachel one last time, Cuddy allowed herself to close her eyes once more.

She didn't even realize that she'd fallen asleep until her ringing phone woke her up. Instinctively her hand reached for her cell phone, but mentally she was trying to figure out where the hell she was and what was going on.

A turn of the head to each side of her revealed a sleeping House and Rachel, and Cuddy couldn't help but think that being in between those two giant _babies_ was how she spent most of her life; there was nothing odd about it.

And that thought was one she had once more the second she answered her phone.

The woman on the other line was her assistant, but since Cuddy had just hired her, she had no idea what her name was. Obviously, Cuddy didn't particularly care at the moment; given the way her assistant was rambling on about some sort of issue, all that Cuddy cared about was the underlying fact that she was going to have to drive in to the hospital. _Again_, there was nothing odd about that.

But as used to it as she was, she felt a growing amount of irritation towards the hospital's dependence on her.

In the past, she'd almost relished that unbalanced relationship. Princeton-Plainsboro had needed her, and when she hadn't had anything outside of her job, that had mattered to her more than anything. And she still _did_ like that, of course; she liked knowing that her work meant something, that it made a difference for the patience who sought her employees' help.

Yet things were more complicated now. _Now_, she had Rachel, and giving up time with her in order to deal with someone else's incompetence was… _not_ what Cuddy wanted.

And she had no problem making that perfectly clear to her new employee. Each and every word laced with annoyance, by the time Cuddy said, "Yeah. I'm on my way," her assistant was itching to hang up and surely regretting that she'd ever called in the first place.

Cuddy refused to feel guilty about that.

If the new girl were going to last at all, she would have to get used to the pressure. And certainly if Cuddy were going to have to keep missing out on her daughter's childhood, then the assistant should have been prepared for a little misdirected anger every now and then.

As she slowly crawled out of bed (so as not to wake the other people in it), she felt that anger inside of her grow. She loved her job, but right now, she did _not_ want to be there. A glance at the clock told her that it was four thirty, and she _really_ didn't want to be getting ready for work.

What she _wanted_ was to go back to bed. She _wanted_ to wake up when normal people did with their children in their arms and their only concern being whether or not they would make it to the school recital on time.

_Shit_.

Her silent complaints had just been a meaningless exercise (she definitely didn't have time this morning to do any _real_ exercise), but now it was making her remember:

Rachel's dance recital.

Scrubbing her hands tiredly over her face, Cuddy told herself that there would be enough time for her to come back and pick Rachel up. Well, there _should_ have been enough time. But given the way things at work normally worked, there wouldn't be.

And that meant, if it were up to Cuddy and Cuddy alone, Rachel would be late – if there at all.

So someone else would need to take her… but who?

At that moment, House let out a small snort in his sleep, and Cuddy took that to be a sign that he was volunteering for the job.

He would hate doing it, of course, and she knew that if she gave him the option to say no, he _would_. But in her mind, that just meant taking away that choice.

How to do that though… _that_ was the question.

Biting down on her lip, she knew that the quickest way to make him do anything involved sex. Giving him sex, withholding sex – it all worked pretty damn well. Seeing as how he was unconscious though, that didn't seem like a likely option.

Then again… she could fix that.

A plan immediately formed in her head, and knowing that it would work beautifully, she quietly tiptoed toward the alarm clock on his side of the bed. As she set the alarm clock for ten minutes from now, she thought to herself that getting House to do exactly what she needed would be _so_ easy.

But the thought had no sooner entered her brain than he reached out and grabbed her wrist.

His warm fingers clasping tightly around her wrist, she swallowed hard. She'd been caught, she thought. And she hesitantly looked toward him to confirm what she suspected.

His eyes were barely open though, and she noted that there was confusion – _not_ accusation – in his bright blue irises.

"What are you doing?" he croaked.

A lie quickly formed in her mind. "Your alarm clock went off," she whispered. "It must be broken."

Of all the things she could tell him, she supposed this was one of the more believable lies. His alarm clock was old, so it was plausible that it would go haywire. And more importantly, he slept well enough that it was also plausible for him to sleep through the alarm.

Most importantly though, if he were to believe her now, he wouldn't blame her for the alarm going off in ten minutes.

And thankfully, he did seem convinced. Using his grip on her to pull her closer to him, he murmured, "Come back to bed."

She buried her face in his neck all the while using her free hand to set the alarm clock to on. "I wish I could," she whispered. "But I'm already awake." He nodded his head. "I'm going to go take a shower."

He let go of her obediently and easily rolled over onto his stomach. Freed she headed toward the bathroom to brush her teeth.

Of course, she couldn't deny feeling guilty about the whole thing. He was tired, and after what had happened last night with Rachel, Cuddy would have preferred to _not_ have to ask for House's help. But as she spit toothpaste into the sink, she supposed that she didn't really have a choice. Rachel needed to be at that recital, and there wasn't exactly anyone else Cuddy could call to do that; her family didn't live nearby; Wilson was busy (hence he wasn't going to be attending this disaster waiting to happen in the first place), and she still hadn't hired anyone to replace Marina. So that really did only leave House.

There was no other way, she told herself, climbing into the shower. She might have wanted things to be different – he _definitely_ would want things to be different – but there was no avoiding it. And as she began to wash her hair, she reminded herself that she couldn't let him see how much she already regretted asking for his help.

He would exploit it to get out of it.

He would use her own feelings into weaseling out of her the outcome he wanted.

She was determined _not_ to let that happen.

And so, five minutes later, when she heard his alarm go off (and the subsequent boom of the alarm clock being thrown against a wall), she was more than ready to deal with him.

As predicted, he slowly made his way into the bathroom. Immediately heading for her, he wrenched the door to the shower open. "My alarm clock's broken." He threw a hand in the air in exasperation. "I can't sleep."

"I'm sorry," she told him honestly. Leaning forward a little, she kissed him on the lips. But, since it was the morning, she immediately regretted doing that. Her nose scrunched up in disgust, Cuddy said, "Brush your teeth."

"You're not minty fresh enough for the both of us?"

"No."

He nodded his head in concession. "Fine. But don't get too excited with the loofah. I'm joining you." Completely unconcerned for the little girl sleeping in the next room, he let the shower door slam behind him.

And why should he have cared? The little monster had kept _them_ up for part of the night. Why shouldn't he have returned the favor?

Predictably, Cuddy didn't agree with his line of thinking. The second he hopped into the shower with her, she said, "Don't slam the door. You'll wake –"

He cut her off by slamming the shower door again.

Her eyes narrowed on him. "Let me simplify it for you: you make noise, she wakes up. She wakes up, we don't have sex."

House knew he couldn't argue with her logic. But naturally he wasn't going to _apologize_ (who the hell would?) and instead asked, "How much time _do_ we have?"

Truth be told, Cuddy thought that they had upwards of two hours before Rachel got up. Given that they'd all had a restless night, Rachel was more likely to sleep in than usual.

However, Cuddy knew she couldn't _say_ that. Rachel might have had two hours left, but _she_ needed to get to work. And although House could _not_ take two hours to get off, what Cuddy really needed was for this to be over with as quickly as possible. So she told him, "Five, maybe… _seven_, minutes tops."

"Then I hope you're already in the mood," he told her with a sour expression on his face. Five to seven minutes was fine for him, he thought as he negotiated his way around Cuddy to stand underneath the shower. Hell, he could get off in two or three minutes if he were really pushing it.

But unless Cuddy were seriously horny (and right now, she just looked tired), he knew it would probably take her a little longer. He could get her there; of that he had no doubt. However, if, in five minutes, Rachel were going to bust through the doors, as she inevitably would, the fun would abruptly end right then and there.

If anything, it would end with Cuddy screaming at him and wringing her hands over the possibility of poisoning her baby's mind.

And House didn't feel like dealing with that.

_Ever_.

So he said the one thing he never liked saying, "Or… maybe we should just wait."

Cuddy smirked at him. He really wasn't all that smart first thing in the morning, was he? Placing her hands on his shoulders, she kissed him lightly. "_Or_ I can give you a hand job now, and you can –"

"Okay," he readily agreed.

"You don't want to know how I was going to finish that sentence?"

He shook his head. "Let me guess: you want something from me."

"Yes."

House supposed that that should have sent off alarm bells in his head; he knew Cuddy well enough to know that "do something for me" meant "do something that will make you _miserable_ for me." And maybe he should have been considered what that something was – especially when she'd offered him the hand job first without immediately saying she wanted something in return.

Then again, House realized that she'd _tried_ to do that, and he'd interrupted her. So maybe… maybe it was a sign that what she had planned for him wasn't too awful?

Part of him was sure that that reasoning was incredibly faulty. But the other part of him was also sure that it was _criminal_ to pass up any kind of sex with a wet and eager Cuddy.

His eyes looking her over at the thought, he was reminded (as he always was) just how beautiful she really was. Even right now, when she was wearing just the dark circles under her eyes and no make up, she was gorgeous.

He didn't like, much less want, to wax on about her appearance, obviously. Even in his own mind, when he wanted to do that, he sounded too much like a lovesick puppy. And that was a ridiculous accusation coming from within himself, because he wasn't being blinded by love as much as he was stating _very_ clearly what was right in front of him:

Cuddy was hot.

His gaze following the trail the water from the shower was leaving on her body, he watched little rivulets fall onto the soft apples of her cheeks. Greedily seeking contact with the rest of her body, the water – in the same manner that he liked to explore her body – lazily cascaded down along her jaw before falling onto her collarbone.

These days her clavicle and ribs were more prominent than they'd ever been, the water briefly getting caught there. As Rachel got older, as he lived with them longer, the more stress reducing activities Cuddy seemed to need. Running, yoga, tennis – she was doing it all as often as she could these days. And that, in addition to her irritating habit of skipping meals, had made her thinner.

Not unhealthily so, not unattractively so, but she _was_ thinner, and sometimes she looked, _felt_, frail. No, not frail, he instantly corrected.

Delicate.

She would scoff at his description, which was why he never said it. And considering how her breasts and ass had largely been left in tact, he had no real reason to say it. She was still healthy _and_ hot, and that was all that mattered.

Noticing in that moment how beads of water were sliding along the slope of her breasts, he considered putting an emphasis on the hot part of that sentence. When he saw how the water collected around before dripping off of the dark nipple that seemed to be calling for his mouth, he knew he needed to rephrase himself.

She was healthy and _hot_.

And annoyed it would seem.

Shaking her head, Cuddy said, "_House_."

His eyes instantly shot back up to meet hers.

"You're wasting time," she explained irritably. "If you want me to –"

"Ready when you are, sexy." The words came out more sarcastically than he'd wanted. But a gesture toward his already straining cock made Cuddy realize that he meant every word he said.

She smiled, allowing one of her hands to lazily trail down his stomach toward his groin. "I love how easy you are." It just made manipulating him _so_ much easier.

As her left hand wrapped around his dick, he muttered into her shoulder, his face pressed into her wet skin, "Fuck."

The water from the shower made stroking him easy. Her hand running his length, his skin was warm under her touch. His breath was hot against her neck, and given the way he was panting, she knew that she'd be leaving for work in no time.

Her free hand slid from his shoulder to his chest; as she eagerly jerked him off, his hips were beginning to buck, and she wanted to steady him (nothing would make this more miserable than one or both of them falling). Her palm flat against him, she allowed her thumb to brush lightly over his nipple.

The pace his dick and her hand were working at fumbled at that moment, and she knew it was because she was touching his overly sensitive chest.

"Don't," he told her, and that came as no surprise. He liked doing all sorts of things to _her_ breasts, but when it came to his own nipples, he was more limited. Stroking was okay every now and then (and apparently now was not one of those times), but anything more, he didn't like.

So Cuddy slid her hand down toward his hipbone. And to cover up her mistake, she asked him in a low voice, "So tell me, what do you have planned for me this weekend?"

He was a little surprised by the comment, his hips stilling. Lifting his head to look at her, he asked, "Huh?"

One of her fingers ran over the head of his cock, beads of precum being smeared onto her fingertip. The temptation to tease and taste him too great, she brought her hand to her mouth, so she could lick the fluid off.

He groaned and thought that this confirmed her desire to kill him. _No one_ who had the health of his heart in mind would put on a display as erotic as the one she was performing right now.

It was too much for him to handle.

And eager to come, he reached for his own dick… only to have it smacked away by her hand.

"That's _mine_," she told him possessively, her fingers lightly stroking his balls before returning to his cock. As she started to slowly stroke him once more, she reminded him, "And you still haven't answered my question. What do you plan on doing to me this weekend?"

He felt her reaching around to cup one of his ass cheeks greedily, which made it nearly impossible to focus on what she was saying. "I… I don't have any plans."

She kissed him lightly on the mouth. Their lips meeting for only a second, he was left wanting more as she pulled her head away. "No," she said, shaking her head. "You must have something in mind."

He wanted to tell her that the only thing in his mind was the way she was jerking him off right now. But since she _was_ tugging at his member with conviction, he couldn't even begin to get the words out. Instead, he simple said, "Nothing in mind."

Cuddy squeezed his ass. "You don't have any plans? No… fantasies about how you want to take me?" The way she was talking – the singsong voice she was using – it was all serving to turn him on, which was precisely what she wanted. And given the way he grunted then, she could tell she _was_ getting what she wanted.

"Of course," he admitted. "Always have fantasies."

"So tell me," she whispered, her teeth nipping at his ear.

"It doesn't matter."

And it really didn't. If he'd learned one thing over the last several years, it was that the fantasy _never_ matched up to what she could and _did_ do for him.

The real thing was incomparably better.

But Cuddy wasn't ready to drop the subject. "Just tell me. I'm curious." Yet he said nothing, his orgasm apparently too close for him to think about anything else. "Is it a certain position? Am I on my back with you on top of me, forcing me take it over and over?" Her strokes became more insistent. "In your mind, are you behind me? Am I on my hands and knees begging for you to take me?"

His answer was one word: "_God_." She was pushing him closer and closer with the way she practically moaned her questions in this ear.

"Maybe that's it," she said knowingly. "Is it not the position that matters? Would you rather hear me call you sir? _Master_?" He pushed himself eagerly into her hand, and she took that opportunity to move her other hand toward the center of his ass.

Her fingers delicately parting him, she pressed the pad of her index finger against his anus.

She'd never done that before, had never even considered it. And she didn't understand why she should suddenly be motivated to try something she'd never even thought about in the years they'd been together.

Writing it off as a lack of sleep, she asked him, "When you dream about me, do you imagine me doing this?"

He moaned, his eyes screwing shut at the mix of sensations. Whether he'd thought about it before or not didn't matter; he just wanted her to continue. So he said slowly, "Just keep doing it."

She squeezed his cock, loving the way it seemed to harden more with each touch. "You want me to keep going? You want me to finger you?"

"_Fuck_," he said once more.

Gently, _slowly_, she slipped a finger into him. His muscles immediately squeezing her at the intrusion, she stilled, going no further.

She didn't need to. Even though she wasn't moving, she could feel how much he was liking it. He was thrusting into her fist quicker than she could jerk him off. The water raining on them was turning cool, but the places their bodies were joined were hot.

As he pushed himself back onto her finger as hard as he could, he told her, "More."

Cuddy had no intention of doing that. She had no idea how experienced he was with being on the receiving end, but being the one who spent a good deal of her time with House being penetrated, she didn't want to go too fast.

Still… she was willing to pretend. Remembering why she'd created this scenario to begin with, she said, "You're so close. I can feel it."

"Yes."

"You want to come like a big boy for me right now, don't you?"

He panted but shook his head. "_More_."

"You're not going to get more," she told him firmly. "But if you're good, I'll fuck you so good, House. I'll let my finger thrust in and out of your _hot_ ass until you come so hard I have to wash myself all over again." She pressed her breasts against him, so he could feel her hardened nipples against his chest. "You do what I want, and I'll even leave your come on my stomach _all_ day, so that, no matter where I go… no matter who I see, we'll both know exactly who I belong to." His ass tightened around her, and she knew that her words were getting to him.

So she moved in for the kill. "All you have to do is agree to take Rachel to her recital today."

He stilled. "What?"

She kissed him as hard as she could, swallowing whatever confusion he had with her mouth. Pulling away just enough so that she would whisper, she told him, "Just say yes, House. All you have to do is say yes."

One of her hands stroking his cock, one of her fingers deep inside his ass, he didn't have the ability to tell her no. She was brushing against his prostate gently, the rest of her fingers squeezing his ass possessively, and she couldn't help but think that, even though this was just a hand job, she was _absolutely_ driving him insane.

Sensing that he was close as a sob escaped him, she repeated, "All you have to do is say yes… and come for me."

He didn't have it in him to say no. "Yes, yes, yes," he said over and over; he clearly had no idea what he was saying yes to. In his mind, he was probably thinking… well, she assumed he was thinking _nothing_ at that moment.

His body controlling every aspect of him in that moment, he jerked his hips a few more times. His cheeks turning red, he moaned loudly.

She tugged at his cock and relished in the noise he was making. One more thrust and he came. Her gaze trained on his lower body, she watched as he ejaculated, watched as she felt his warm fluid spill onto her stomach and down her hand.

It was enough to make her uncomfortably turned on.

As he rode his orgasm out, she pressed her thighs together to alleviate the warm throb between them that was echoed in the way his muscles were twitching on her finger. She wanted him inside of her so badly.

But there really wasn't any time for that. Truthfully, there wasn't even time for _this_.

And knowing that she had no hope of getting off, she let go of him, her finger sliding out of him. Quickly rinsing herself off, she smiled a little at how dazed House was. They'd been together for a while now, and to know that she _still_ had that ability, to know that she could _still_ make him speechless was a huge boost to her ego.

And if it weren't for the circumstances, she would have let him stay in that uncharacteristically blissful state. He was so rarely content, and this was as happy as he got, and she would have liked to leave him this way.

But she couldn't.

Getting ready to step out of the shower, she told him brightly, "So the directions to Rachel's school are on the fridge, and she needs to be there at nine, even though the recital doesn't start till nine thirty."

He stared at her blankly. If he were supposed to know what the hell she was talking about, he didn't.

"I'm going to get ready for work, and I'll see you there."

She opened the shower door to get out, but he grabbed her to stop her from leaving. "What are you talking about?"

Innocently, Cuddy replied, "You agreed to take Rachel to her recital."

He held onto her tightly, refusing to let her go. For the life of him, House couldn't remember agreeing to that, and he figured he couldn't remember, because he wouldn't, under any circumstances, _agree_ to that.

Driving the little tub of lard around was the last thing he wanted to do, the last thing he would _volunteer_ to do. In fact the only way he would have _ever_ agreed to do that was if she'd asked during sex, which…

He frowned deeply. "You can't ask during sex," he barked at her.

She gently removed her arm from his grip. "You said you would do it."

"We were having _sex_. It doesn't count."

"Well, I need someone to take Rachel to the school, so this time, it's going to." Her voice was light and breezy, almost as though she were enjoying this whole thing. Anger coursing through his system, he was pretty sure she _was_ liking this.

"I'm not doing it."

She stepped out of the shower. "You _are_." He was about to tell her how mistaken she was when she spoke once more. "We had a deal. You do what I want out of the bedroom, and I give you the best sex you've ever had." She gestured to his spent dick. "We've had the sex. Now you're going to have to –"

"We had sex under false pretenses," he announced, realization dawning on him as he said the words. "_You_ lured me into the shower…" He was about to say more when the vague memory of waking up to her near his alarm clock washed over him. And then he understood. "My alarm clock was fine. You had this planned from the beginning."

When she didn't deny it, he knew it was true. She'd created this whole scenario. "Well, that's even more of a reason for me not to –"

"House. You're taking her."

"_No_, I'm –"

She reached for her bathrobe but didn't look away from him. "Let me put it to you this way. If you don't do this, you're going to be sleeping on Wilson's couch with only your hand to keep you company for a _very_ long time."

They both knew how he was going to respond to a threat like that:

He was going to give in.

With anything else, he would have called her bluff. But considering how many years she'd gone without sex, it didn't _matter_ that they did it nearly every day; she _could_ go without.

He couldn't.

And he certainly didn't want to.

Both of them knowing she'd won the argument, she sauntered away victoriously.

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Thanks to lucky08, Temo, red blood, tuckp3, DoctorLisaCuddy, Sydney, Neelie2009, and lhoma320 for leaving me some really amazing feedback. It's always interesting and enlightening to read how everyone has been reacting to this piece, and I appreciate the encouragement so much. Thank you.

_Disclaimer: It's not mine._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Three: Breathe**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

Quietly padding into the kitchen, House tried to silently assess the _traitor _who was standing with her back to him and a mug of green tea in her hands. In the time that he'd gotten out of the shower and put on a pair of fresh pajamas, she'd completely gotten ready for work.

Well, _nearly_ ready – her suit coat and jacket were lying next to her on the counter still. But she was practically on her way out the door nonetheless, and he knew that, if he wanted to hash this out anytime soon, he would have to get it over with _now_.

Cuddy must have sensed this or his presence, because before he could even speak, she cut him off. "I don't have time to fight with you on this, House." Gently she set her cup in the sink; she would _not_ lose control, she told herself. She would _not_ kill him.

She didn't have time for that.

Then again, she didn't exactly have time to explain to him why he had to do this for her, but she was doing that anyway. "I have to go to work, and she has to be at her school this morning. If I could call someone else, I would. But there is _nobody_ else to do this for me. So you have to."

Cuddy began to turn around so that she could finish getting ready; however, she'd barely started to turn before she realized, as she bumped into House, that he was right behind her. The fact that she hadn't even heard him approach her startled her, and she could only snap, "Get out of my way."

When he didn't, she rolled her eyes in anger. It would figure that he would do something like this – try and annoy her into submitting to his wishes.

But she wasn't ready or even willing to give him what he wanted. Especially if he was going to give her the silent treatment or bother her like a _child_ would, she wasn't going to give into his demands.

So she went with the best card she had.

Turning around to face him, she said in a heartless tone, "Let me put it to you this way: having sex with you is great. But I'm not your _prostitute._ I am your _girlfriend_, which means that every now and then, I'm going to need you to do something that doesn't involve your penis."

"Thank you for clarifying that doing something with your kid doesn't require me to use my penis. That could have been really awkward for all of us otherwise."

He could immediately tell that the joke was unwanted; she was gripping the lip of the counter, her knuckles practically white from the force. And there was no denying – indeed, it was unmistakably clear that she was livid – that she probably wanted to kill him.

Which was why it came as a surprise that her voice was so calm when she spoke. "If there's one thing I would have hoped you would have figured out by now…" She shook her head. "Well, it would have been that you _cannot_ win by making me choose between you and Rachel."

"Oh, _relax_," he told her, waving her off. "I'm not asking –"

"Every time you refuse to interact with her, every time you divorce yourself from this situation, that is _exactly_ what you're doing," she argued loudly. She'd been trying to be as quiet as she could be. She'd been _trying_ to maintain some sort of control. If only to avoid waking Rachel, Cuddy had wanted to be as quiet as she could be.

But he was just too infuriating for that to happen.

"I get it: you don't want to be a father. You didn't ask for this. I _get_ it."

She truly did.

Having spent a good portion of her life not wanting kids, she could imagine how conflicting it would have been for her_ then_ to find a man with children. She could understand how imposing it would have been then and how imposing it must have been for House _now_ to deal with a child he never wanted.

Especially when that child was _Rachel_.

That thought sounded so awful, even to the person thinking it, but Cuddy wasn't insulting her daughter as much as she was recognizing that Rachel wasn't the easiest child in the world to have. She was stubborn, maybe even more stubborn than _House_ (and that said something). She… wasn't _stupid_, but there was no denying that she didn't have the same… desire to learn things the way that her mother and House did.

Cuddy secretly hoped that that fire for knowledge would be lit at some point – at some point _soon_. But for the time being, Rachel seemed perfectly content with knowing what little she knew about the world and asking only a few questions sporadically. And even if that were completely healthy and normal and fine, that didn't necessarily make it easy for someone like House to relate to her. Obviously he wasn't interested in _any_ sort of relationship with her, but Cuddy could only wonder if things would have been different if Rachel were more curious about the kinds of things House was well versed in.

And even ignoring all of that, Cuddy couldn't deny that Rachel's physical problems made everything more difficult. Between the asthma and the allergies and the diabetes and the thyroid that never seemed to want to do its job right for more than a month or two at a time – Rachel was not the kind of child you could just… _play_ with. She had a specific set of needs that you could never be forgetful of, and that added to the weight of the responsibility of looking after her. Because watching her always meant that something could go seriously wrong.

Naturally seeing as how both House and Cuddy were doctors, it wasn't necessarily _complicated_ medicine. If it had been, House probably would have found it _more_ enjoyable to be around Rachel; his love of puzzles would have made her, at least for a brief moment, interesting in his eyes. But instead, her illnesses were the sort of chronic conditions that – again in _his_ eyes – were more pesky than anything else, and he had no interest in that.

He had no desire to carry around Epipens and vials of insulin and needles and medication. He had no desire to measure her ketones or her blood sugar or her hormone levels.

And that wasn't surprising, because really, that was essentially everything he hated about performing clinic duty. So why would he have felt any differently at home?

Well, of course, Cuddy had an answer for that: it would have helped her. It would have been the nice if not the right thing to for _Cuddy_.

And House liked to act like he didn't know how to be a nice guy, but she _knew_ that he was more than an ass. She knew that he was _more_ than capable of being kind, understanding, and _caring_.

He was _not_ (much to most people's shock and amazement) incapable of being a good person.

So this behavior could only have been the result of House making a _choice_ to be as selfish as possible.

Not oblivious to what he was doing, he was actively _creating_ this situation.

And Cuddy knew that she was letting him.

She was allowing him to be in her home and behave this way.

Well, _not_ anymore, she decided right then and there.

Her voice hardening, she told him, "I try to respect your right _not_ to be her father as _much_ as I can, because I _know_ that it's not fair to you. But every now and then, I _am_ going to need you to do things for me. And I shouldn't feel _guilty_ for asking –"

"You didn't ask," he interrupted lightly.

Cuddy growled in frustration. "Lets put it this way: We _all_ know that you're not getting everything you want from me. But _perhaps_ you should realize that you're not alone in that."

House looked at her curiously, as though he didn't understand where any of this was coming from. And that was confirmed when he asked her, "And how much caffeine have you –"

"Don't try and make it seem like _I'm_ overreacting. I'm not."

"No?"

"_No_. Now, get out of my way," she whined, as she tried to push him away.

He wasn't about to let that happen though. If she were to walk away now, they'd be pissed at one another for the rest of the day, guaranteed. And he _wasn't_ going to deal with that, he told himself as he gripped Cuddy's hips to stop her from moving.

"_House_. Get off of me."

Naturally he ignored her and instead scrunched his face up in mock confusion. "Tell me something, Cuddy. Did I actually _say_ that I wouldn't take Heathcliff to the thing?"

She looked taken aback by the question. "What –"

"Did I say, when I came into the kitchen, that I wouldn't take Rachel?"

That just seemed to make her more confused, which he supposed he could understand. He _was_ implying, after all, that he _would_ do what she'd asked him to do – without even much of a fight – and that was bound to confuse the hell out of her.

Blinking slowly, she shook her head. "You…"

"I _came_ in here to remind you of our little bargain _and_ to guarantee you that I would return the kid to you in – at _most_ – three parts."

She didn't react to the comment, shock and confusion still taking hold of her. Which was okay, he supposed, because soon enough, doubt would rear its ugly head, and he wanted her to be long gone before that happened.

His voice mocking, he concluded, "But _apparently_, you've decided to listen to the voices inside of your head instead of –"

"I'm not crazy," she insisted.

"Me," he continued, talking right over her. "So that means that we're going to have to do this the tedious way." He squeezed her hips a little bit before honestly saying, "There's nothing you're telling me I haven't already figured out."

She nodded her head but said nothing.

To be honest, Cuddy wasn't sure what she should say or do. Part of her wasn't even sure she _believed_ him, and that made a suitable reaction that much harder to find. Because if she did believe him, then she wanted to know why it had taken him so long to actually agree to help her. And if he was lying, if he was just saying all of this to make her less angry, then she wondered what he was thinking in _again_ trying to put off the fight they would inevitably have over Rachel.

Either way, no matter what his reasoning was, Cuddy didn't get a chance to say or ask anything. House was simply too quick for her. "I don't plan on screwing this up," he told her quietly, firmly, leaving no doubt as to his authenticity. "In case you haven't noticed," he said, his hands sliding to cup her bottom. "I've become rather attached to your ass; I'd hate to part with it."

She rolled her eyes. "Just my ass?"

"The rest of you isn't so bad either, I guess."

"Oh, well, I love you too," she replied dryly, plucking his hands off of her body.

Feeling as though that were a good place to end the conversation, Cuddy started to walk away. But once again, House stopped her. "I _do_ love you."

She smiled a little – just a _little_. She refused to let herself be completely content with the comment. Since she suspected he was just saying it to ensure that he would still get laid, she wasn't going to reward him with a full grin. "I know."

"Then get off my back, woman."

"Then get out of my way."

He started to do that, his body shifting a couple inches to the left. But then he didn't really want to end things there. He'd managed to make one point but not the one he'd been planning on addressing, and if he let her go now, he'd never get another chance.

So as she started to walk by, he grabbed hold of her arm. His grip loose on her, it was still enough to draw her attention away from him. "Hey," he said quietly. When she looked up at him, her gaze one that showed just how unimpressed she was, House told her, "I love you."

Immediately the look in her eyes changed. Whatever boredom or irritation she'd been feeling instantly evaporated, and though they'd been fighting only moments before, she couldn't help but reply, "I love you too," with as much earnestness as he had used.

He would never admit it, but he liked hearing her say that. He liked it even more when she looked at his mouth and straightened her spine; it was proof that she was going to kiss him. And when she did, it was soft and gentle, her lips little more than a whisper against his.

It was fine, the chaste, little kiss she was giving him. But it wasn't exactly what House had in mind. And when she went to pull away from him, he simply refused to let her go and brought her closer. As he tried to deepen the kiss, she turned her head to the side and mumbled, "We can't do this."

"Sure we can."

"No, we don't have – _I_ don't have time."

As he allowed one of his hands to venture underneath her skirt, he countered, "You have a couple minutes."

She shook her head. "I have _maybe_ two minutes, and –"

"And if you're acting _this_ peevish, I'm pretty sure I'm only going to need two minutes to get you off," he pointed out, knowing how irritable she got when she was turned on.

Of course, some would have probably argued that right now she was just irritable. But he knew better, knew _her_ better than most people. The sex in the shower, the knowledge that he was agreeing to take Rachel, and the subsequent feeling of victory that she must have had – it was all Cuddy should have needed.

His fingers wedging themselves between her warm thighs, when he ran his thumb over her damp panties, he knew he was right.

With a smirk, he told her confidently, "If you're this wet, I can have you out the door in thirty seconds."

"Fine," she capitulated immediately, just reinforcing what he already knew; she couldn't have sounded more irritated and put upon if she tried, but he wasn't doing anything all that annoying, which left him to make one very obvious conclusion: she wanted him.

Her hands moving to his shoulders the second he managed to pull her panties away from her body, she gasped loudly. He hadn't even really touched her; the tight confines of her skirt made it rather difficult for him to maneuver, and the way she was tightening her thighs around him didn't make it any easier. But it didn't matter. The little he _was_ doing was more than enough to turn her on even further.

One of his fingers slowly parted her moist lips. The rest of his hand lightly cupped her mound, and for a moment, he stilled so he could just feel her warm skin and the way her labia seemed to caress his probing middle finger.

"Fuck me," Cuddy told him in a voice that was raspier than usual. She tried to rock her hips against his hand. But no amount of movement put enough pressure on her clit, which was precisely what he wanted. Frustrated she said, "I don't have all day."

He smirked at her impatience and rewarded her by instantly shoving three fingers into her.

"Oh God," she moaned as he set a steady pace, not even giving her a second to adjust to suddenly being filled. Her nails dug into his shoulders, the thin t-shirt he was wearing doing little to guard himself. It was okay though; she kept her nails short for work, despite not having been a real doctor in years, and that he could feel the little half-moons _at all_ digging into his flesh was a testament to just how turned on she was.

As he pumped her pussy in hard if not long strokes, House glanced at the clock by the stove. At that moment, the second hand was just passing the twelve. He'd give her a minute, he decided, knowing that any more time would be a bad idea (for _him_ anyway).

Five seconds passing, he sped up his pace, nearly pulling his fingers out before shoving them back into her as far as he could go. Mercilessly fucking her, he wasn't being particularly kind. But then she wasn't exactly looking for kind, he realized. Because there was no denying that she was enjoying it.

Her juices were coating his fingers easily, steadily, until he was damp as her panties, which were clinging at the back of his hand. Another ten seconds passing, and he could hear the moist little noises her body was making and the sound of his palm slapping against her pussy.

She was tight – _so tight_ – as her internal muscles tried to draw him in her further. Her thighs quivered; her knees shook, as pleasure coursed through her body and she inched closer to where he wanted her.

Another fifteen seconds, and she was gasping for air and grunting as quietly as she could. She didn't want to wake up Rachel, didn't want to let House see her in such reckless abandon – as though Cuddy had ever been good at hiding _that_.

It only took another twenty seconds before she gave up on that all together and cried out loudly.

He kissed her lightly on the forehead to encourage her, wanting her to get even more worked up.

Not that he really needed to encourage her, of course. Four seconds later, when he allowed his thumb to lightly brush along her clit, she did it naturally on her own. Her fingers now practically bruising his shoulders, he knew she was close to coming.

And that was precisely where he wanted her when the second hand hit twelve again – not coming but _close_ to having an orgasm. Because he wanted it to be like torture when he suddenly pulled his fingers out of her and said, "You know what? You're right; you don't have time for this."

Stepping away from her, he headed toward the sink to wipe his hands off on a dishtowel. For a brief second, he expected her to follow him, to say something, to do _something_. But when there wasn't even so much as a peep from her, House ventured a glance at her.

She was exactly where he'd left her, her skirt disheveled and mouth open as she panted. Her brow knitted in confusion, she was too busy trying to understand what the hell had just happened to say or do anything right away.

But when she did work it out….

She looked like she wanted to kill him.

"You did this on purpose," she snarled as he approached her once more. As he silently fixed her skirt for her, Cuddy said, "You wanted me to want you, so you could do _this_."

He reached for her suit jacket and held it out for her. But she made no move to accept it. "That does sound like something I would do, doesn't it?"

She ripped the coat from his hands. "_Why_?" She was seething with anger, so much so that she couldn't even put the jacket on, her hands shaking too much. "Why would you use sex –"

"It _does_ seem a little cruel, huh? To use sex to make a point." He nodded his head mockingly before taking the coat away from her and holding it up and open for her to step into. "That's just wrong, right – to manipulate with sex?"

She rolled her eyes before turning, so she could put her arms through her jacket. Scoffing the whole time, she argued, "All right, fine – I… was a little cruel. But _I_ let you come at least. You –"

"Didn't?" he offered. "Yeah. I thought it might be a good idea to let you know: you can manipulate me with orgasms all you want. But just because you have no problem jerking me off to get what you want doesn't mean I'll be quite as _giving_ when I want to prove my point."

Cuddy took a step away from him, and her back turned to him, House decided to give her a smack on the ass to accentuate the point. The slap slightly muffled by the fabric of her skirt, when she turned around to face him afterwards, she had a wolfish smile on her face. "Did I hurt your feelings by using you and proving how _easy_ you are?"

This time he was the one to roll his eyes. "I'm crying on the inside."

"Good," she replied happily. "Because if you think this little game of yours –"

"Mine?" he scoffed. "I wasn't the one who started it."

"That's a matter of opinion." She waved her hand to the side, brushing off his point. "But just so we're both clear, there will be payback."

He smirked. "I hope so. It'll be fun watching you try and get the better of me."

"Already did it once. What's one more time?"

"We'll see." She reached for her winter coat, which was still lying on the counter. "You headed in?"

She nodded her head, the competitive conversation suddenly feeling sober. "Yeah. Hopefully, this won't take too long, but I don't know." Guiltily she glanced towards the hallway, which led to Rachel's bedroom. "She's going to hate me if I don't make it in time."

He scoffed. "She's going to be too traumatized by me getting her ready this morning to care."

"You'll be fine," Cuddy told him gently.

Of that she had no doubt. He might have been uncomfortable around Rachel, but he was certainly more than capable of caring for her. He knew how to take care of the medical aspects of Rachel's morning, and everything else outside of that, she was old enough to tell him what to do. And Cuddy had _no doubt_ that her daughter would set House straight should he do something wrong.

"Just make sure she gets her medicine and something healthy to eat, and she'll tell you what she needs to wear for the recital."

"Great," House said dryly.

"You will be."

"We'll see if you're that convinced _after_ today."

She moved closer to him, so she could put a hand on his arm. "You'll be _fine_. You wouldn't be here if I didn't think you were capable."

House was unconvinced. "That would mean more if you hadn't also thought _Lucas_ –"

"Stop it," she ordered firmly. "You don't need to be insulting just because you're feeling insecure."

"I'm not feeling insecure."

"Then you don't need to bring _him_ up."

He looked at her curiously. "Why? You been thinking about –"

"You don't need to bring him up, because it's been _years_, and he doesn't matter," she said firmly. "I chose you." Kissing him on the cheek, she added, "So don't forget that."

House nodded his head once but gave no indication as to whether or not he believed her. Instead he just said, "You're going to be late for work."

"Okay." If he wanted to drop the subject, she was selfishly more than willing to comply. "I'll meet you at the school. Hopefully."

"You'll be there," he said knowingly.

"Well, I hope so. But considering I have to go in at _all_, I don't exactly have faith that –"

"You'll be fine. As sexually frustrated as you are right now, you'll be out of there in minutes." But then he considered what he was saying a little more and changed his mind. "Unless you make your assistant cry and quit her job and then… well, I guess not."

He hadn't planned on reminding her of the incident that had happened only moments earlier. Though he didn't, not even for a second, believe that she'd managed to _forget_ about the whole thing, House hadn't wanted to talk about it anymore if they could avoid it.

Talking about it would just make her pissier.

Which it _did_.

Almost as though she were just now remembering how close she'd come to coming and how _mean _he'd been to deny her, she narrowed her eyes on him. "You _better_ make that up to me later."

"After watching Rachel, I think –"

"You will be fine," she insisted. "And if you really do end up being _that _horrible with her, you'll owe me more than ever. Okay?" She smiled widely, something he had no desire to do, and then she left.

All alone House could only feel as though he were destined to have the worst morning he'd ever had. Okay, he immediately conceded that that might have been an exaggeration; he'd been through much worse. But considering he was awake before the sun had even risen, it was hard to deny that this morning wasn't going to be a very good one.

Then again, he supposed he _could_ go back to sleep before the midget woke up. Then _again_, he couldn't exactly go back to _his_ bed, because said kid was currently occupying it.

Well…

House _probably_ could have gone back into the bedroom and gone back to sleep. Rachel had slept in bed with him enough times that that in and of itself wasn't weird. But since all of those times had involved Cuddy in between them, it did seem… _wrong_ to lie in bed with a child who wasn't your own kid. Cuddy wouldn't probably see it that way, and Rachel wouldn't feel that way, but House just wasn't sure he wanted to do that. In the very least, the fear that Chris Hansen would bust his door down at any moment would distract him from getting what little sleep he could, and so House avoided the bedroom altogether.

Ending up on the couch in the living room, he sighed into one of the little throw pillows Cuddy had neatly placed on the sofa. This wasn't comfortable either; the couch was too small for his lanky body – as was the afghan that was usually folded up on the arm of the sofa. His legs were scrunched awkwardly together so that he could fit on the couch, and his bare feet were peeking out of the blanket that was too thin to keep him warm anyway.

All in all, he thought miserably, sleeping on the couch sucked. But luckily for him (and perhaps unluckily for his relationship), he'd had enough experience with Cuddy giving him the boot that he was used to being smushed and scrunched up on this sofa. And as a result, it didn't take him long to fall asleep.

Whether he slept for minutes or hours, House had no idea, and when he woke up, he had no concern for anything other than the pain in his leg. He didn't register the sun beaming in through the windows; he didn't notice that he'd drooled all over the throw pillow Cuddy had recently bought. And he sure as hell didn't notice the little girl in front of him, asking him, "Where's Mommy?"

All House felt was the excruciating pain in his thigh. His body covered in sweat, it tried to relieve itself of the ache that seemed ten thousand times worse than normal. And when it seemed to get worse, his gaze instinctively went south, as though he would be able to _see_ the problem.

But the ironic thing was…

He _could_.

It was Rachel, her chubby little hands gripping onto his thigh as hard as she could. Later, when he'd had time to consider the matter, he would think that she hadn't meant to hurt him. She'd simply been trying to tug him awake, to get his attention. But at the moment, while it was actually happening…

He had enough self-control not to slap her hands away but _not_ enough to stop himself from _screaming_, "Get the _hell_ away from me!"

She didn't need to be told twice.

Before he could even register the look of terror on her face, Rachel turned around and took off running. Her chunky legs taking her as fast as she could go, she ran away from him, sobbing as she went.

His thigh finally free, he sat up and immediately began to tend to his leg. Cuddy would probably be pissed that he'd yelled at the kid, he thought in the back of his mind. But right now he was in enough pain that the desire for Vicodin was almost too tempting to ignore, and that _had_ to take precedence.

He felt bad about it… maybe not a _lot_ but a little bit. And he tried to call Rachel back as he massaged the damaged tissue with his sweaty palms. But she didn't come back, and he didn't have the energy to chase after her. Which he was, quite frankly, not all that upset about, because if she had returned, he wasn't sure he would have had the ability to calm her down.

Right now, he wasn't even sure he had the ability to calm _himself_ down. It hurt too much; _he_ hurt too much, and with each second passing, the pain just seemed to get worse. Rachel wasn't even around him now, but the force with which she had grabbed him was something he was now _truly_ beginning to feel.

Before it hurt like hell, but now, it felt as though what muscle was left in his thigh was tying itself into thorn-filled knots. It felt as though thousands of needles dipped in Sriracha were slicing through his leg, and though rubbing his thigh usually made the tension ease, this time, it simply made the burn that much worse and the desire for Vicodin that much greater.

His fingers shook at that knowledge, at the mere _thought_ of Vicodin.

If he had just _one_, the pain would go away.

But he _couldn't_ take just one. It wouldn't be _just_ one. Because if he took a pill, if he remembered how _good_ it was to be without the amount of pain he'd become accustomed to, he would want another pill. And another one and another one and so on until he was just as crazy as he had been years ago.

The very fact that he was even _thinking_ about Vicodin after being institutionalized was proof that he couldn't take any.

No one in their right mind would want to go back to the substance that had contributed to their mental illness. No one in their right mind would think that the high was worth risking Cuddy, his job, his _sanity_.

But sitting on the couch all alone, House couldn't stop himself from thinking about it.

He shouldn't have; just considering taking Vicodin was making the pain seem that much worse, was making his skin itch with need. As though the addict part of himself needed to give him _more_ of a reason to reach for the bottle, House could feel his body _physically_ craving his drug of choice.

And so he was relieved (even as part of him was irritated) to hear the front door being yanked open.

It only took a fraction of a second for him to realize that, as nobody had knocked or rung the doorbell, Rachel was _leaving_. And the moment he understood what was going on, he was on his feet as though the pain in his leg didn't matter.

Obviously there was no denying that it hurt.

_A lot_.

But instinctively House knew that if something happened to Rachel, the ache in his leg would be nothing compared to Cuddy murdering him with her bare hands.

Moving as quickly as his thigh would allow, he headed toward the front door. In the back of his mind, he told himself that Rachel running away wasn't really that troubling; as slow as he was, she was even slower, and she'd be easy to catch.

But he wasn't expecting to find her face down in the snow right next to the steps where the flowerbed would have been if it weren't winter. For a very brief second, he wondered if she'd passed out; that was _just_ what he needed – her to have some sort of medical emergency to make this morning even more hellish than it was already turning out to be. But then her crying met his ears, and he knew that she was at least conscious.

"What are you doing, kid?" he asked in a soft if exasperated tone.

As he tried to go down the steps, he understood what must have happened. A thick patch of ice covering all of the steps, she'd obviously gone down them too fast, lost her balance, and fallen. Frankly, House probably would have too if he weren't maneuvering his body down toward her as slowly as possible.

When he'd finally cleared the two steps, he reached down and plucked her out of the snow as unceremoniously as possible. His gaze trained on where he'd found her, he would have been amused to see the Rachel-sized outline embedded in the otherwise pristine snow. _Would have been_ being the key phrase there, because as things were, he couldn't find any amusement in the situation at all – not when Rachel started to try and kick him.

Reflexively, he held her at arm's length, her short legs missing him thankfully. And from there, he could see how upset she really was; her face was beet red, though whether that was the result of being in a couple feet of snow or from crying he didn't know. Her nose was running; tears were in her eyes, and her cold hands were trying to shove his own larger ones, which were gripping her hips, away.

From his point of view, she looked and sounded like a knowing pig being led to the slaughter. And her feet kicking at him some more, House wasn't sure what to do with her or how to calm her down.

He'd never _had_ to do much of anything in regards to her; that was always (thankfully) Cuddy's job or (when she was alive) Marina's. The few times he had had to watch over Rachel, she'd been…

Well, things hadn't been like _this_.

And he didn't really know what to do, because what she needed wasn't something he could easily define, much less give to her.

But he knew that he needed to do something fast. She wasn't exactly being _quiet_ in House's grasp, and sooner or later, one of the neighbors would hear it and look out the window and call the cops (or just call the cops right off the bat). Which was precisely what he _didn't_ need to happen, so he guessed the best thing to do right now was to get her inside and hope that no one had seen them.

Getting her inside, though… that wasn't exactly going to be an easy task. Between her squirming and kicking, the ice on the steps, and his bum leg, herding cats seemed like a much easier task.

"What the hell!" he snapped as she managed to get one of her kicks to connect with his body. Luckily it was his good thigh, and his reaction was more out of surprise than pain. However, he didn't want to give her any other opportunities to hurt him.

Reluctantly he pulled her flush against his body. His arm wrapped around her legs, she couldn't kick him anymore… which naturally didn't stop her from trying to hit him. But he could deal with that, he thought, as he turned around to head back up the steps and into the house.

And at least she wasn't biting him, he told himself as he slowly trudged back into the house.

The second he kicked the door shut behind them, she demanded, "Put me _down!_"

He was tempted to drop her then and there, but he knew he couldn't. Cuddy would frown upon that. Then again, she would have frowned upon the way he snarled, "Don't run away," as well, but he did that anyway.

Not that Rachel was listening. She was too busy shoving her hands in his face to try and pry herself out of his grip. "Let me go!"

"I'll let you go if you stay _inside_. I'm not going to chase you around the neighborhood."

She started to say some more, but all that came out of her mouth was an "I" before she shut up.

At first House thought about giving thanks to the God he didn't believe existed. If she was _finally_ being quiet, then he figured he should at least give lip service to the idea of a divine being.

But then House felt a change in Rachel's body against his chest, and that idea was once again summarily dismissed.

She was no longer fighting him, her hands lightly resting on his shoulders. And that was odd in and of itself, but then he felt the way her chest muscles were beginning to tighten.

Curious, he pulled her away from his body. As he did so, he could hear her breathing become more erratic. His eyes roving over her, it was impossible to miss the way she was gasping for air.

What little oxygen she was getting rasping loudly in the back of her throat, she suddenly looked very pale and sweaty and _scared_.

"Where's your inhaler?" he demanded to know, as he tried to remember where he'd last seen the damn thing.

Rachel opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. She clearly knew where her rescue inhaler was but couldn't quite get the word out.

Her wheezing filling his ears, it was hard for him to concentrate. The fact that this was his girlfriend's kid suffering didn't help. But he knew that he'd seen the damn inhaler recently, and if he could just think…

_The kitchen_.

With Rachel on his hip, he stalked towards the kitchen. The inhaler was there. He was absolutely sure of it.

By the time, he sat Rachel down on the kitchen counter, her fingertips were beginning to turn blue, and his arms were aching from her considerable weight. "Stay there," he told her, knowing that the instruction was rather needless. Even if she were to hop down in this state, she wouldn't get very far.

Turning away from her, House began to hurriedly rummage through the cabinets by the stove. Cuddy usually kept everything in one of those cupboards, he thought; _yes_, she'd once showed him where all of Rachel's meds were kept before now, but that had been a long time ago. And more importantly, when she'd done that, he'd only half-heartedly paid attention. He'd assumed that, if he just knew how much medication Rachel would need, if he listened to _that_ and that alone, he would be okay.

Now though… House was secretly wishing he'd paid better attention. Yanking open the first drawer he came to, he gave a sigh of relief when he saw all of the drugs Rachel regularly took stuffed in there.

Not that he was _really_ worried, he told himself, as he plucked the albuterol inhaler from among all the other contents. It just would have been less stressful for both of them.

Holding the inhaler for her, he helped her take her medication; he didn't trust her to do it all on her own. And that might have been a good thing, he decided as she began to breathe more easily once again.

Her body was shivering from the cold, her pajamas soaking wet from her little excursion in the snow.

And that was his breaking point. A bitter laugh escaping him, he couldn't help but think about everything that had gone wrong. She'd hurt his leg; he'd nearly relapsed and scared her into running away. She'd fallen in the snow, had an asthma attack, and now looked like and sounded like a very unhappy, wheezy, wet pug.

All in all, it was the _exact_ opposite of what Cuddy had said it would be like.

House had known that it _would_ be this awful, but part of him had secretly hoped that Cuddy was right, that things with Rachel would be much easier than he expected. But if this morning – if the _five minutes_ they'd spent in the company of one another – had proven anything, it was that he was _not_ exaggerating.

If anything, he'd _underestimated_ just how quickly it could turn awful.

Leaning against the kitchen counter with Rachel next to him, House wondered how he was going to tell Cuddy that she was wrong.

_To be continued_


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Notes: Thanks to Neelie2009, dmarchi, Thayna, miss-Lore, Sydney, HouseBroken, Huddyphoric, red blood, Miz iNDePEndANt, lhoma320, and tuckp3 for leaving me reviews and encouraging me to keep writing this fic. I appreciate it more than you'll ever know. Thanks again.

_Disclaimer: It's not my show._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Four: Shark in the Water**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

Rachel sat shivering on the counter, her large round eyes trained intently on House. She wanted to get down now that she could breathe. She wanted to take off her sticky clothes that were making her chilly skin itchy. She wanted to take back whatever she had done wrong to make House angry, and more than anything, what she wanted, what she really, really, really, really, _really_ wanted was Mommy.

But her car wasn't in the driveway, and she wasn't in the house anywhere, and she wasn't outside, because it was cold, and Mommy didn't like to be cold or in the snow (and there was a lot of snow). So she couldn't possibly be here, but when she wasn't here, she was at work, and she couldn't possibly be at work either, because Mommy had said that she would take Rachel to her recital.

But Mommy said a lot of things that never turned out to be true.

Like when she said they'd visit Nana for Hanukkah, and they ended up staying at home because House had a patient instead. Or like when Mommy promised her a puppy for her birthday but then never got one because of allergies.

Or like when Mommy said that things would be fun with House around.

Aside from being told that needles didn't hurt and that school was fun, Rachel thought that had been the biggest lie of all.

So she probably _was_ going to miss the recital today. And just the thought of not being the blue jay in the dance that she'd practiced _so hard_ for made Rachel want to cry.

But she didn't dare.

House was standing beside her, towering over her with a laugh escaping him that didn't sound like he was all that happy. And she was afraid.

Of him, of what he might do… she wasn't really sure, but the fear froze her in a way that belly flopping into the snow had not.

Sitting absolutely still, she waited for House to leave.

But he didn't.

Instead, he gently pulled her off the counter, which was easy to do, thanks to her wet pajamas. "You need to change," he told her.

Taking that as an opportunity to get away, Rachel nodded her head before sprinting towards her bedroom.

House watched her go in boredom. Her feelings towards him couldn't have been more obvious, and he was tempted to tell her that he was just as dissatisfied with this arrangement as she was. After all, it wasn't like he'd asked the hospital to call Cuddy and make her go to work, so he could watch the little brat.

He was just as screwed over by this whole thing as Rachel was.

Not that he could tell her that.

It would be cruel to do so, but more importantly, it would tell Rachel that he didn't want to be in her life. And if she knew that, as unhappy as she was, she would do everything she could to make _him_ miserable. Because if she knew that he didn't want to be there, she would try and force him into giving into his desire to flee. She would do _whatever_ she could to get him to call Cuddy.

And House was determined _not_ to do that.

If only because he didn't want to give into the whims of a _five year old_, he didn't want to give her what she wanted.

But that seemed almost inevitable when he heard a loud thud and the sound of Rachel crying coming from down the hallway.

Immediately he headed toward her room; it was hardly what he _wanted_ to do, but for the moment, it _was_ his responsibility to make sure she hadn't… bludgeoned herself with a lamp or something equally stupid.

Luckily for him, her brand of idiocy was of the harmless variety.

The second he pushed open her door with the palm of his hand, he saw what the problem was.

Her pajama top was pulled up but too tight and small for her to actually get it off her head. And since it was wet, it clung awkwardly to her neck, cheeks, and arms, so she was stuck with her arms in the air and her face pressed into the dark blue and pink polka dot fabric.

Her bare stomach hanging out, Rachel was crying in frustration as she stumbled around the room.

Frankly, House was tempted to let the little train wreck continue to do her impersonation of Wilson after his bachelor parties. Yet he knew he couldn't. Her cat piggy bank was already on the floor, and the way she was flailing about, it would only be a matter of time before she broke something or hurt herself.

Sighing, he stepped into the room. "Stop moving," he ordered. His voice scaring her, she jumped. So he added, feeling rather feeble about the whole thing, "I'll help you."

His words naturally fell on deaf ears. It was hard to be surprised by that, given the way Rachel was continuing to flail about; she was easily too concerned with what she was doing to pay attention to him. And in any case, she didn't trust him to do _anything_ for her; even if she weren't focused on getting undressed, she wouldn't have listened to, much less believed, him.

Knowing that, House could only watch her try to take care of herself for a few minutes.

He was _not_ trying to be cruel.

That wasn't what he wanted.

But the fact of the matter was that, at the moment, he felt _completely_ inept. He felt _totally_ unable to care for someone who had about as much an interest in him as he had in her.

And normally, he was okay with the way they ignored one another; it usually made his life easier to not have to deal with a five year old on a daily basis.

Now though…

It didn't feel like such a good situation.

_Now_, he was realizing that the relationship he _didn't_ have with Rachel was _not_ of his choosing. It was _not_ something that could be good if he wanted it to be.

What this was was something _completely_ out of his control.

And though he'd never wanted (nor would he _ever_ want) Rachel to be his daughter, House did _not_ like that he wasn't the one making that decision.

Not that he wanted her to be keeping her fingers crossed for a relationship, of course. He just wanted to be the one in charge of how things were; for some reason, that made the situation seem less depressing, made him seem like less of a mismatch in this family. In short, it wasn't a reminder that his relationship with Cuddy was doomed to fail.

Fatalism surged within him, the familiar, bitter companion reminding him of its existence suddenly. That feeling rising within him like a tide threatening to drown the world, it seemed as though, no matter how long he could convince himself that he was happy, the emotion _always_ returned with renewed vigor. Almost as though it could sense within him when he was at his happiest, it would eagerly thrust itself upon him once more and force him to consider how tenuous his relationship with Cuddy really was.

He hated it, and what he hated even more was the fact that it was nothing new for him. He was never convinced that things could last forever, never confident enough to believe that she would never change her mind about him.

And _this_ was just proof that he had good reason to feel that way.

As Rachel punctuated the thought by banging into her dresser, House reluctantly moved closer towards her. The chances were she would hit or kick him when he grabbed her; she would scream and piss him off easily, but at this point, he didn't think he had any other options.

Grabbing her as she stumbled back towards her bed, he wasn't surprised to hear her shout, "No!"

"Just relax," he told her through gritted teeth, as he shoved her pajama top back onto her body.

"No!"

She tried to pull away, but he wasn't going to let her go. One of his hands wrapped around her arm, it was hard to keep hold of her _and_ undo the buttons on her top. "Stop moving," he snapped out of frustration.

Rachel paused at the sound of the booming voice. She was too afraid to do anything else.

As mean and loud as he could be, she'd never seen him _this_ mad. He'd yelled at her before, but today was different.

She could tell.

He was angrier, meaner looking. His eyes were weird and cold looking – reddened in the part that was normally white.

And it was scary.

_Really_ scary.

So scary that she stood still and let him help her out of her clothes.

She didn't like it.

Not at _all_.

The grip he had on her hurt a little, and she didn't like being this close to him.

_Ever_.

She didn't trust him.

He'd never given her a reason to.

Then again, he'd also never given her a reason _not_ to.

House had never hurt her. He'd never punched her like Madison Swanson had when Rachel had tried to steal her Princess Tiana doll. He'd never spanked her like Marina had (not that Rachel had ever told anyone about that or how she'd made Marina dead by wishing she would die) when Rachel had chased her ball into the street.

House had never done anything like that.

But he was big and loud and wouldn't play Barbies with her the few times she'd asked, and he was always around _her_ Mommy.

So Rachel didn't like being near him.

And she _really_ didn't want to be near him now.

"Me go," she cried loudly, the let completely left out of her sentence.

Her shirt only halfway unbuttoned, he shook his head. "You'll run away."

"Won't," she whined.

But he wasn't going to relent, knowing all too well what would happen if he did. "Just stay still, all right, kid?"

He certainly didn't think _that_ was going to happen obviously. Asking her to do something was akin to asking a whale to do a headstand. So it came as no surprise that she tried to shake his hand off.

"It hurts," she cried.

Undoing the last button of her pajama top, he looked at her face carefully. As much as he'd been hoping to make a quip about how sex with Cuddy had made undoing buttons single handedly easy, if Rachel was saying something was hurting, he needed to check that out.

And deep in the gray-blue irises of her big round eyes were indeed all the signs of someone in pain.

She wasn't lying.

But he didn't know what she was talking about.

Her stomach maybe? From using it to break her fall?

Okay, so the idea was a rather lame one. But at the moment, it was all he could think of as a source for her pain.

Instinctively needing to test the theory out, he awkwardly got down onto his knees. It hurt like hell, but he needed to get a better view of what was going on. Silently, using his free hand to palpate the pale expanse of exposed skin, he lightly ran his palm over her stomach. "Your belly?" he asked, looking for clarification when he couldn't see or feel anything wrong.

She shook her head immediately. "My arm!"

House didn't get it at first. For a brief period of time, he remained blissfully ignorant of Rachel's predicament. Instead of hearing what she was trying to say, he thought that maybe she'd fallen on it oddly. But then he thought that if that were true, he would have noticed something before now, and even if he hadn't, she certainly wouldn't have been able to flail about as she had been only moments ago.

So something must have changed.

And it was then that he understood:

_He_ was hurting her.

Bile tunneling into his throat, House immediately let go of her. Almost as though touching her _burned_ him, he released her as quickly as he could.

He hadn't meant to hurt her, but the fact that he had… _killed_ him.

He'd _hurt_ Rachel.

And after scaring her, after nearly killing her with an asthma attack… after _years_ of ignoring her, he was now – without a _doubt_ – every bit the monster he'd always feared he would be. Whatever good Cuddy had thought she'd seen in him had been completely eradicated in this moment, and he knew she would never forgive him for it.

_Nobody_ would.

And he wouldn't want them to.

After what he'd just done, he didn't deserve anything even remotely approaching forgiveness.

Given the way Rachel was looking at him with fearful eyes, House knew forgiveness was the last thing he'd earned.

But nevertheless, he felt compelled to say, "I'm sorry."

Coming from his mouth, the words were surprisingly sincere. As much as he'd hoped to convey genuine apology in his tone, he had been half-convinced that he would actually sound indignant or sarcastic. Which made sense, seeing as how that was usually how the words sounded coming from him.

This time though, there was no pretending that he hadn't done something wrong. This time, there was _only_ the option of accepting what he'd done. Because if he even wanted Cuddy to _consider_ forgiving him, he needed to play his cards carefully starting this second.

Rachel wasn't going to make that easy though.

Completely ignoring what he'd said, she simply said, "I'm cold."

He frowned. The fact that she wasn't even acknowledging what he'd said was _not_ a good sign. Not that he'd expected her to forgive him, but he had at least anticipated _some_ sort of response from her.

That she wasn't giving him anything left him feeling let down and at a loss as to what he should do next. His eyes searching her for some sort of answer, when he came up empty, he said, "All right."

He half-expected her to run away when he turned his back to her. As he searched her drawers for something to put on her, he thought she would take the opportunity to run away. But when he turned back around, she was still exactly where she'd been seconds ago.

Silently, he peeled off the clothes she'd been wearing. Instinctively his gaze fell to the area of her arm he'd been holding only moments ago. Almost as though he expected the proof of his actions to already be blemishing her skin, House felt sick to his stomach at seeing that her pale flesh appeared unharmed. Because although a part of him would have liked to feel relieved at seeing that he hadn't hurt her _that bad_, in his mind, it just felt as though her body was complicit with his crime.

And if Rachel were to tell her mother and he were to deny it…

Maybe Cuddy would believe her daughter, but there was a good chance she wouldn't, and seeing her do that was the last thing he wanted.

Feeling guiltier than he ever thought possible, House helped Rachel into a fuzzy, yellow-with-pink-butterflies pair of pajamas that nobody liked.

Oh, House supposed that Cuddy had thought they were cute when she'd purchased the fleece onesie; certainly, it would be thick enough to keep Rachel warm. But they were without a doubt the most reviled set of pajamas in the house. Because it was a one piece, Rachel had to nearly undress herself to use the bathroom. And though there was a zipper, not buttons, holding the thing together, the fact of the matter was that Rachel was _rarely_ quick enough in undoing it in order to make it to the bathroom in time. Several puddles of piss on the floor later, the pajamas had been relegated to the back of Rachel's drawers.

Right now though, they would keep her nice and warm, which was all House really needed.

Once she was zipped up, Rachel asked, "Can I go now?"

The last thing he wanted to do was say yes. He didn't want to let her go before…

Before _what_?

Before he made her reassure him that things would be okay?

Before he made her agree to never tell Cuddy?

Things would never go that way, he knew, and so he could only say, "Yeah."

And though he expected her to take off running, she didn't; instead she scuttled to her bed, hurriedly crawling under the covers. Watching her scurry about, House carefully considered his options.

He could leave now. Doing that would certainly help him avoid an awkward conversation with the kid, and that _definitely_ meant something to him.

On the other hand, it wouldn't make things any better. In fact, if walking away now did anything at all, it would be to make him seem even more guilty than he already was. It would make it seem as though he didn't care that he'd hurt her, as though he thought that he hadn't done anything wrong. And when Cuddy heard that he'd just left the room without a second thought…

It would be over.

Of course, chances were it would be over anyway.

But if he wanted a shot, if he had _any_ hope of keeping Cuddy in his life, he knew that he would need to… reach out now.

Which sounded quite simple but really wasn't, because he had never _really_ tried with Rachel before. There might have been a couple of moments over the years where they were… _agreeable_ to one another's presence, but watching _Scooby Doo_ together once or twice hardly constituted a relationship.

He didn't have the basis for _anything_ with Rachel, and trying to forge some sort of connection with her now would only be met with suspicion.

But he knew he had to try.

Knowing that, he hobbled over toward Rachel's bed. His leg hurt more than it had in months, each calculated step one he regretted the second he'd taken it. Yet there was no use in stopping himself; he _had_ to do this if he wanted to even have a chance of keeping Cuddy.

Eventually standing beside her bed, he waited for the little girl to pop back out of her cocoon, so he could talk.

But she didn't.

She just stayed buried under the covers.

Whether that was out of being afraid, exhausted, or cold, he didn't know. So he decided to answer that mental question, knowing that it could help him determine how to proceed.

Clearing his throat, he awkwardly asked, "You tired?"

She didn't even pop her head out of the covers much less give an answer, so he had to forcefully peel the sheets. "Are you tired?"

Her eyes wide with shock, she could only answer honestly by shaking her head.

"Cold?"

She nodded her head quickly.

As he reached for the blanket at the foot of her bed, he told her, "You'll warm up. Your body just needs time."

Of course, it would probably take her longer. Her hypothyroidism made her incredibly sensitive to the cold, and even when her condition was well managed, that was one thing that did _not_ change.

Draping the afghan across her body, he asked her what he really wanted to know. "You afraid of me?"

Rachel immediately shook her head no. But the speed with which she did it told him that she was lying. And though he hadn't expected anything else, he hadn't _expected_ her to be _okay_ with him, it definitely did_ not_ feel good to have his suspicions confirmed.

Shifting on his feet to try and alleviate the ache in his thigh, he tried to make things better with Rachel by saying, "Well… it's… you know, it's okay if you are." But those words, awkwardly, _clumsily_, spoken were hardly reflective of what he meant. "Well, all right, not _okay_. But I would understand if you were."

She didn't say anything right away. Her gaze trained on him, it was almost as though she were silently trying to assess whether or not he meant what he had said, whether or not he was in a good enough to mood to listen to her speak.

Whether or not it was even worth trying to do so.

But she must have seen something she liked, because eventually she spoke up. "You're mean," she accused. "I didn't do anything wrong, and –"

"I know," House admitted in an accepting tone. Although he knew that technically she _had_ done something to set all of this off, it hadn't exactly been wrong to wake him. And when she had no real idea of the pain he would feel when she touched his leg, it wasn't exactly a _choice_ to do something bad when she'd woken him. "I shouldn't have done that."

Rachel wasn't willing to let it go though. "I just wanted to know where Mommy is, and you –"

"I get it," he told her a little more gruffly.

He didn't mean to sound so fed up. Really, he didn't. But between her insistence and his leg hurting like hell, it was hard to be apologetic.

And that was when he realized that the best thing he could do for both Rachel and himself was to get off of his leg. It sounded odd, but if he could just give his thigh a break, he could focus more on what she was saying and _not_ on the pain coursing through his body.

But knowing that she wouldn't follow him to the couch or his bedroom, he understood that if he wanted to lie down, he would have to do it here.

With her.

And the very fact that that seemed less repulsive to him than it normally would have was a testament, he thought, to just how much his leg really did hurt.

Crudely climbing into the bed next to Rachel, he was not surprised when she immediately asked, "What you doing?"

His head had barely been on one of her pillows when she'd demanded predictably to know what was going on. And though he knew she would ask, he did _not_ know how to explain to her why he was lying next to her. Rachel ate glue after all; she wasn't going to understand what chronic pain meant.

Yet House could see that he would need to offer some sort of explanation – not only to diffuse the weirdness of being in bed with her, but also to put his earlier behavior in some sort of context.

Of course, it went without saying that the chances of that working were slim to none. But he supposed he had to try.

"I'm lying down," he explained dryly. "My leg hurts. After you touched it this morning –"

"I didn't do wrong," she practically shouted nonsensically.

House bit down on his cheek to keep from yelling back at her. Carefully choosing his words, he told her, "I know you didn't mean to, but when you put your hands on my thigh –"

"No!" She squirmed on the bed angrily.

"_Yes_," he insisted. "It _hurt_."

"I poked."

"Yeah, you did."

"I didn't do it hard," she said defensively.

"It still hurt, kid."

But Rachel didn't want to believe him. "Nuh uh."

"_Yuh_ huh," he replied in a similarly childish manner.

"You're _lying_."

"Rachel, I'm really not." His patience having worn thin, he wasn't interested in continuing this fight.

"Yes –"

"You ever notice how I walk with a cane and most people don't?" he asked her in as calm a voice as he could. When she nodded her head, he asked, "You ever wonder _why_ that is?"

Rachel shrugged, tiredly pushing her long, dark hair out of her eyes. "No."

He sighed. "Of course not," he muttered under his breath. But then more loudly, he explained, "Years ago, before you were born, I got sick. My leg hurt, and…." He shook his head a little before continuing. "They fixed the problem, but the pain never really went away. So… when you grabbed me, even though you didn't _mean_ to hurt me, it hurt."

There was no accusation in his tone; though it wouldn't have been _wrong_ to include a little of it, House knew that no good could come of it.

As it was, good things were unlikely to happen – especially when Rachel looked at him doubtfully. And in a snotty tone that would have made Cuddy proud, the little girl challenged him. "Prove it."

House understood that there were many ways he could do just that. "Ask your mother" first and foremost, the words were practically on the tip of his tongue when he realized that that wasn't a viable option. Even if he could get Cuddy on the phone, even if Rachel heard her mother say that House wasn't lying, it wouldn't do any good; at some point, Rachel would want more than _talk_.

So instead he told her, "Fine. I will."

"Good." She had that look on her face that said in the brattiest way possible, "I'm waiting," and House really couldn't help but think that, if Cuddy were here, she would be proud of her child. _He_ was obviously less enthused by the prospect of having two women (three, if you counted Wilson) giving him the side eye all day long, but _Cuddy_ would have been pleased to know that her daughter was willing to pick up the slack when she wasn't around.

Would have been pleased if she ever found out about this, House thought to himself, knowing that he would never tell her. Rachel might, but as he yanked one leg of his pajama pants down to show her his thigh, he suspected she would have other things on her mind after this.

He was slow to reveal the long, meandering scar that was the physical representation of the bane of his existence. Inches of skin being revealed slowly, it would have seemed as though he was doing this for dramatic effect. Indeed, the way Rachel's eyes were widening with each patch of thigh he was showing made it seem that he was doing this just to scare her. But the fact of the matter was that he was more interested in making sure he didn't accidentally show her something _other_ than his thigh.

Having been too dazed and paradoxically annoyed by Cuddy's games, after showering, House hadn't thought about much besides _killing_ her; though he'd thought about clothes, it had only been in the context of "Yelling at your girlfriend in a towel equals pathetic." And so, he'd put on pajama pants but not underwear, and remembering that now, House knew that he couldn't just yank his pants down.

Though exposing himself to a five year old _did_ seem par for the course, what with the way the rest of the day had gone anyway, he wasn't interested in giving Cuddy any more reasons to kill him.

So he was careful to make sure that he was only showing Rachel his thigh and nothing else.

Not that she was really looking at anything else; the second she saw his scar, it was all she could pay attention to. Her eyes wide in shock, in _disgust_, she could only stare at the mass of scar tissue.

And it was then that he considered how odd it was that she'd never seen it before. After all, he'd known her since she was a _baby_, since Cuddy had first fostered her. With all of that time passing, it seemed almost bizarre that Rachel hadn't ever caught a glimpse of something so inescapable for him.

But here she was, catching her first sight of the monster he couldn't destroy. Her repulsion palpable, he understood why he'd kept _this_ hidden.

Her reaction was too honest.

Having lived with it for _years_ now, he was used to the way he looked. And though he hated it, his appearance was nothing in comparison to the pain he felt. So he just… ignored that aspect of it all – which was easy to do when he was the one banging Cuddy.

She was hot enough for the both of them.

And when she didn't look at him as though he were inferior, it was almost easy to forget that there was this hideously unattractive part of him.

But here Rachel was, reminding him of it. Especially when she scrunched her nose and said, "Eww."

"Thanks," he replied dryly.

"That's _gross_. Can I touch it?"

"You already did," he pointed out. Deciding that he'd had enough of her staring, House readjusted his pajama pants.

"It looks like a shark bit you."

He rolled his eyes. "You know, that's exactly what happened."

Though it seemed impossible, her eyes became even wider. "_Really_?"

"No."

She seemed oddly disappointed by that. Although on further reflection, he could only think that he would have been just as disappointed if his own father had admitted and then _denied_ being attacked by a shark. Of course, House would have been disappointed even if the story _were_ true, given the fact that his father would have lived….

"Anyway," he said, forcing himself back into the present. "When you woke me up, I was in a lot of pain – _a lot_," he emphasized, stressing the point as best as he could. "And when I'm in a lot of pain… it's hard for me to think about the other stuff I'm doing."

He looked toward her to see if she was reading between the lines. But it was almost immediately clear that she wasn't. "There wasn't a shark?" she asked sadly.

"There was no shark." He was trying to be patient, but right now, it felt like he was banging his head into a brick wall.

"It would be better with a shark."

"Well, that's true of most things. For instance, this conversation would be _way_ cooler if a great white swam over here right now and gnawed my face off." Rachel giggled, though House wasn't sure if she actually got what he was saying. He was okay with that though, and the mood slowly becoming more serious, he murmured, "I wasn't trying to be mean to you or hurt you. But I know I did, and I'm sorry."

The words couldn't have come out quicker if he tried. Although the sentiment was genuine, he wasn't comfortable with having to apologize, and frankly, he thought that if he could just railroad over the whole thing, he would.

Thankfully, Rachel's room temperature I.Q. had risen a degree or two. Topping at a balmy eighty, maybe even eighty-_three_, it allowed her to figure out what he was trying to say. "It's okay," she told him honestly. "Sorry I hurt you."

He waved her off, though part of him was oddly relieved _and_ disappointed that what he'd done to her could be forgiven so easily. "It's fine. Nothing a morphine drip can't cure."

But there was no amount of morphine to eliminate the discomfort he felt when Rachel then rolled over toward him and hugged him.

_Hugged_ him.

No, _hugging_ him, he corrected, because she wasn't moving away. Her head resting on his chest, her arms wrapped around him as best as she could, she was still actively hugging him.

"What are you doing?" he asked, dreading the answer she would give.

"Mommy says you have to hug the person you apologize to," Rachel said matter of factly.

To himself, House thought that Cuddy would be doing a lot more than hugging to make this up to him. Then again, he _also_ thought that he would be doing a lot more than hugging to earn _her_ forgiveness over how he'd acted this morning.

But to Rachel, House simply said, "That doesn't have to be our rule though."

"Yes, it does."

"_Why_?"

"Cause hugging you is fun," she told him. "You're squishy." As if to prove the point, she buried her head further into his chest.

"_Squishy?"_ He couldn't have sounded more horrified if he'd tried. "I'm not – I'm not squishy, okay?" Rachel giggled, which only seemed to add to his displeasure.

Because, _sure_, he hadn't really been able to work out in years (his leg had prevented that from happening). But he didn't weigh hardly any more than he had five or six years ago, and he certainly didn't have the physique of a beanbag chair.

"Okay," Rachel said doubtfully.

"And I think it's time for breakfast," House announced, sitting up. Unfortunately she came with him, her body still pressed against him like they were… father and daughter or something.

"Can we have cookies?" she asked, he started to pry her off of him.

House frowned. "We don't have cookies."

"Uh huh. Mommy brought them home two days ago. I sawed them." She nodded her head for emphasis, her cheek rubbing against his t-shirt.

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"She put them in the cupboard behind the oatmeal. I sawed her."

House considered the information he'd just received for a moment. On the surface, it was plausible. Cuddy was the kind to hide cookies, especially if she'd bought them in a moment of weakness and planned to eat them herself. But Rachel wasn't exactly the type to leave a box of cookies where they were. "Then why haven't you eaten them?" he asked curiously.

"Cause if _I_ taked them, _I_ would get in trouble."

"And if I take them -"

"Then I don't get in trouble," Rachel said with a smile.

He blinked in shock. "And the I.Q. reaches boiling. Nice."

"Huh?"

He sighed. "And the world has righted itself once more."

Rachel clearly had no idea what he was talking about, so it came as no surprise when she asked, "Does that mean we can have cookies?"

He shrugged, mentally recalling (and ignoring) Cuddy's requests for a good breakfast for the runt. "Sure."

Unfortunately, it wasn't going to be that easy (in this family, nothing ever was).

Because he'd just made stacks of Oreos for Rachel and himself when he heard, from behind him, Cuddy ask, "What are you doing?"

He turned around as Rachel shoved a cookie into her mouth. And he was not surprised to see Cuddy, hands on her hips, looking at him as though she were going to murder him. "You weren't supposed to be home until after the –"

"You were right: it's _amazing_ what I can accomplish when I'm frustrated." A sneer on her lips and daggers in her gaze, she asked, "Would you like a demonstration?" He didn't get a chance to tell her no, because she snapped, "Rachel, if you eat one more cookie…"

The threat went unfinished, but it had had its intended effect nonetheless; Rachel set the cookie in her hands down with a big frown.

"Go brush your teeth and hair," Cuddy told the little girl. "And _you_," she said in a dangerously low voice, her gaze trained on House once more. "Put the sweets away. _Now_."

As she walked away from him, Cuddy was sure that he was making a face. But she was so worked up at the moment, thanks to her _damn job_, that she didn't really care. She was too busy wondering why her employees were either completely inept or morally bankrupt to care what he was doing. Short of House setting himself on fire, there really was little he could do to distract her from the fact that one of her employees and one of her biggest donors had colluded with one another to form a drug ring. And even House setting himself on fire was unlikely to change her focus from the inevitable scrutiny she and the hospital would be under to something else.

Sighing, Cuddy closed her bedroom door and began to change. But she'd no sooner slipped out of her skirt when she heard someone push the door back open. At first she thought it was House, but when she turned around, she saw that it was Rachel.

"I finished. Can I have cookies now?"

"No."

Rachel pouted. "But I brushed my hair and my teeth."

But since she looked just as rumpled as she had moments earlier, Cuddy knew that her daughter was lying. "No, you didn't."

"Uh huh!" Cuddy gave her a stern look that stopped Rachel's protests in their tracks. "Okay… I didn't. But –"

"No cookies. And no lying to your mother."

Rachel morosely moved toward the bed, as though she was going to die without having an entire sleeve of Oreos. Collapsing onto the mattress, she whined, "I'm starving."

"I'll make you breakfast as soon as I change, and you brush your hair," Cuddy told her as she pulled a sweater dress out of her closet.

"No cookies?" Rachel asked, obviously double checking, just to make sure.

"Not right now," Cuddy replied smoothly.

And though Rachel seemed resigned to that fact, Cuddy wasn't ready for the conversation to end just then. Considering her daughter had just spent the morning with House, considering he wasn't in the room right now, Cuddy supposed that this was as good a time as any to see how it went.

"Did you have fun with House?"

Rachel shrugged. "I had more fun when we were eating cookies, but –"

"Enough with the cookies," Cuddy ordered. Rachel looked angry but said nothing. "Other than that though," Cuddy continued, as she pulled the gray dress over her head. "Things went okay?"

"Yup," Rachel replied happily, honestly.

"Why was your inhaler on the counter? Did you have a problem?"

"Yeah." Her response was less happy.

"But House helped you?" Rachel nodded her head. "Good."

Taking a quick glance in the mirror, Cuddy smoothed down the few flyaways that were straying from the rest of her dark hair. And once that was done, once she was satisfied with her appearance, Cuddy turned to face Rachel once more. "Go brush your hair; I'll make you breakfast."

But Cuddy soon realized that she didn't need to do that. The second she stepped into the hallway, she could smell something wafting from the kitchen.

House was cooking, she thought curiously, confusedly. He must have been since there was no other rational reason for the scent of cinnamon and brown sugar in the air. But that didn't exactly make sense, because, although he _could_ cook, he never did.

Well, that wasn't exactly true; she supposed it made sense if he were trying to assuage his guilt over feeding her _diabetic_ daughter cookies for breakfast.

Truly it did make sense, because the more she thought about it, the more she was sure that this reeked of appeasement.

And she sure as hell wasn't in the mood to give him an easy way out.

Entering the kitchen, she saw him making oatmeal. But instead of thanking him, she practically snarled, "What were you thinking?"

She was ready to say more, ready to direct all of her anger unfairly at him, but she didn't have the opportunity. He was too quick for her when he apologized. "I'm sorry. I know I hurt her, but that wasn't my intention, Cuddy," he told her sincerely. "She was wet and wouldn't let me help her, but that's all I was trying to do, okay? I didn't mean to hurt…"

His voice trailed off.

He could _feel_ the anger radiating off of her.

And turning away from the pot of oatmeal he'd been cooking, he could see her – practically _purple_ with rage, shock and disgust in her gaze.

Immediately he understood. "You were talking about the cookies."

"_Yes_," she hissed, looking as though she were about to punch him.

His stomach seemed to fall to his knees as he realized just how badly he'd screwed up. "Rachel didn't tell you what happened."

"No," Cuddy answered, taking steps toward him. Now dangerously close to him, she seethed. "But you _will_."

_To be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Notes: Thanks to HouseBroken, dmarchi, Sydney, Temo, jl1820, menolly-au, red blood, Alex, DoctorLisaCuddy, lhoma320, Jane Q. Doe, wrytingtyme, tuckp3, Kelly, Huddyphoric, Thayna, Neelie2009, and huddyholic for leaving reviews. I have honestly never had so much encouragement on a piece like I've gotten from you guys. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing.

_Disclaimer: I don't own it._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Five: Birds, Bees, and Disease**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

Cuddy stood in the kitchen absolutely frozen by the confession House was trying to make to her. In all of her life, she had _never_ seen him look as guilty and ashamed as he did right now. Granted, it was only on rare occasions that he felt either of those emotions (or at least let them show). But right now, that fact hardly mattered. The weirdness of it all couldn't compare to what this display of emotion _meant_. And when she heard the words, "hurt" and "Rachel," in the same sentence…

Fury didn't even begin to cover the surge of anger she felt.

And though there was no denying that she'd come into this inevitable argument _already_ pretty pissed off, she couldn't say that she was overreacting. He wasn't offering any context, but Cuddy was certain that there wasn't _any_ context that could justify or explain what he'd apparently done to her _child_.

That did _not_ mean, however, that she didn't want _some_ sort of explanation. She did. She _needed_ one, if only to satisfy her curiosity.

But he didn't seem to care about that. His silence not unlike a slap in the face, he just stood there in front of her. His mournful gaze was on her; he was looking at her as though he already believed the worst possible outcome was an inevitable one.

And that just made her even more demanding (God forbid he be the only one to know how badly he'd screwed up). "Tell me what you did." He shifted uncharacteristically on his feet, and she responded by barking, "_House_."

He sighed, knowing that there was no way around this. She had every right to know what was going on, and thanks to his loose lips, he didn't have the option of pretending like nothing had ever happened.

Swallowing hard, he started to explain. His voice was low, each thought a staccato blurb filled with as much regret as he could infuse in his tone. "After you left… I was tired. I fell asleep on the couch."

"What does this have to do with –"

"Rachel woke me up," he explained. "She had her hands on my leg, and –"

"And _what_?" Cuddy snapped furiously. "You thought you'd –"

"I told her to get away from me," he said quickly, knowing where Cuddy's overworked mind was headed. "I didn't hit her. I just _yelled_, because I was in pain."

House didn't continue speaking right away. He needed to know that she was following him, that she _knew_ he had _not_ hit Rachel. In the end, she might not make that distinction, but for now, he wanted her to.

Eventually, after what felt like _years_, she nodded her head slowly.

"She tried to run away," he confessed. "Not that she got very far. She fell in the snow out front, and I brought her back inside."

Cuddy looked at him, not very impressed by any of it. But she didn't say anything either, so he took that as encouragement to continue. "I yelled at her for running outside. She started to have an asthma attack, and I _know_ I shouldn't have been shouting –"

"Are you really trying to blame _yourself_ for an asthma attack?" Cuddy asked, her arms folded across her chest and eyes filled with confusion.

Surely, _that_ wasn't what he was talking about, she thought. _Surely_, he had been in this house long enough to know that cold air was one of the things that often triggered Rachel's asthma.

But then Cuddy also knew that, if she'd been in House's position, if she'd had the morning he'd just described, she too would have felt just as guilty. And maybe, though part of her knew that it was wishful thinking, that was what he'd been talking about all along. Maybe he hadn't actually _hurt_ Rachel, and he just thought he had?

Even to her own ears, Cuddy realized that it didn't sound very convincing. But she was let down nevertheless when House scowled. "_No_."

And then sensing that he needed to elaborate some more, he continued, "So I gave her her inhaler. She was fine – just wet and scared – and I told her to go change."

At that point, House couldn't help but look away from Cuddy's imploring gaze. She didn't know it, but he was coming to the point in the story where his behavior became inexcusable. And when he knew that the worst was about to come, it was hard to _want_ to continue with his tale.

But he'd already lost the opportunity to pretend like nothing had happened. And perhaps worse still, he'd denied that he was simply taking responsibility for the asthma attack, which would have been a reasonable explanation for his confession.

Of course, that was merely the desperate part of him talking. Rationally he knew that Cuddy would never go for that for very long; at some point, she would go over what he'd stupidly told her and realize that _something_ wasn't quite right. And even if she'd suddenly turned into a moron, that didn't eliminate the likelihood that _Rachel_ would eventually say something.

At the moment, House was half-convinced that the kid would stay quiet; things had ended on a slightly less than wretched note, and that might have been enough to buy her silence.

Yet there was also the chance that it hadn't, that Rachel would say something at some point. Even if unknowingly or without malice, her mouth could easily utter to Cuddy a line or two about what had happened. And then where would House be?

He didn't even need to consider the question before knowing the answer; he would be much more screwed in that hypothetical than he would be for just confessing what had happened.

So he knew what he had to do.

But that didn't make it any easier.

His voice more tentative than ever, he told Cuddy, "I was going to let her do it on her own, but she got stuck… started banging into everything." Nervously he rubbed his thumb along his forehead. "I went to help her, figured she'd trip over her hairbrush and break her neck. She wasn't paying attention to me when I offered to help her, so…" He shrugged. "I… went over to her, but she tried to pull away. So I held her by the arm, and I wasn't trying to hurt her. I was _trying_ to help her, but I guess my grip was too tight. And she said I was hurting her."

There.

He'd finally – _finally_ – spoken the thing both he and Cuddy had been terrified to hear. The truth now out in the open, there was nothing else House could do but wait for her to end their relationship.

And that _was_ what was going to happen.

He was too much of a realist to expect Cuddy to forgive him for what he'd done, and he thought too much of her to delude himself into thinking that she could live with a man who had hurt her kid.

That just wasn't who she was.

Nor did he really want her to be. Even though part of him selfishly _did_, he knew that he would think less of her if she could brush all of this aside just to be with him.

Not that that stopped him from telling her earnestly, "I'm sorry. I _told_ her I was sorry. It was an accident, and –"

"Shut up."

Her words hurled at him faster and harsher than she thought possible, she could feel the rage build within her. And whether that was because he'd grabbed Rachel or because he was now trying to apologize or because Rachel herself had said nothing of this, Cuddy didn't know. Right now there was so much going on that it could have been any or all of those things, and that wasn't even taking into account all of the drama she'd just had the displeasure of wading through at work.

And truthfully, it didn't matter what was fueling her desire to grind House's hands in the garbage disposal. The fact that she wanted to do it at all was proof enough that something was _not_ right with this situation…

With _her_.

Yes, the problem was _her_, she intuitively knew. As awful as each and every aspect of this series of events was, Cuddy could tell that the well of emotion inside of her was disproportionately large.

She _wasn't_ overreacting though.

That wasn't what she was trying to say.

An overreaction would mean that she was responding in a way that was unnecessary or inappropriate. And when House had hurt her child, when her child couldn't even tell Cuddy what had happened, anger – in _any_ amount – seemed _absolutely_ warranted.

But in her case… she was furious, and yet that wrath didn't really seem to be _her_. It _was_, but it wasn't how she rationally would have reacted to this situation; it was a part of her, but it didn't feel right coming from her.

Turning away from House, she knew that that sounded insane. As she rested her hands on the cool linoleum of the counter, she _knew_ that coherence was hardly her strong suit at the moment.

And because of that, no matter how much House probably wanted a reaction, she didn't want to give him one – not right now, not when sense seemed to be the last thing she was capable of.

Not when handling this _correctly_ was of the utmost importance.

Spinning around to face House once more, she opened her mouth to speak, to ask him for space. But she didn't get a chance to say anything.

Rachel bounding into the room prevented that.

"I brushed my teeth!" Hugging one of her mother's legs, she added proudly, "And my hair."

"That's great," House said sarcastically. "But right now, Mommy's in the process of disemboweling me, so… go do something."

The sound of his voice immediately catching her attention, Rachel looked at him. Blinking a few times in confusion, she tried to repeat the word she clearly didn't understand. "Dis, dis, dis... disem, disem… what?"

"It doesn't matter," Cuddy interrupted in a soothing tone she didn't truly feel. "I think your breakfast is ready," she said, glancing at House for verification. When he didn't say anything either way, she simply continued, "So why don't you go sit down, and I'll bring it you?"

"Cuddy." House didn't like where this was headed. The possibility of her using Rachel to avoid this conversation was very high and simultaneously the last thing he wanted.

But neither Rachel nor Cuddy paid much attention to the warning in his tone. The little girl scampering toward her chair, Cuddy began to get breakfast ready by taking out a bowl and spoon.

"_Cuddy_," he repeated in a low voice.

She shook her head and nudged him out of the way, so she could get to the stove.

"Don't do this," he told her in a tone that sounded more pleading than he'd intended. "Don't –"

"What am I doing, House? Hmm?" She smacked the spoon he'd been using to stir the oatmeal with against the side of the pot. "I'm not doing _anything_."

"Oh, so we're not pretending like I didn't just –"

"I'm not pretending nothing happened," she said through gritted teeth as she poured the hot cereal into a bowl for Rachel. "I just need a moment."

"_Right_," he said, rolling his eyes.

He knew how this worked. She would ask for a moment, but what she was really asking for was permission to take a couple of minutes to replay everything that had happened in her head and get even more angry about it.

And who in their right mind would want that to happen?

"_House_," she barked loudly. Her eyes instantly darted over to Rachel as though Cuddy was just remembering that the little girl was around. As a result, it came as no surprise when Cuddy continued to talk in a much lower voice, "I can't do this with you right now. I know that it would be nice for _you_ to get this over with, but I _can't_."

In a similarly hushed tone, he asked her, "So you expect me to wait for you to get even _madder_ about –"

"Let me put it to you this way: right _now_, the way I want to handle this involves your testicles and a cheese grater," she hissed. "So I would think that it's in your best interest to _back off_."

House didn't want to back down.

That was the last thing he wanted to do.

Much like a band-aid that needed to be removed, this argument was one he wanted to be done with as quickly as possible. Because if the end result was that she was going to break up with him, he wanted to hear that news _now_.

Well, he didn't want to hear it at all.

But at least then he would be certain about his future; at least then he wouldn't have to worry about having any of that pesky hope, he thought sarcastically.

Yet there was something in Cuddy's tone that stopped him from pointing that out to her. As much he would have liked to, he couldn't deny that feral aura about her or the viciousness with which she was speaking right now. And though he was sure she wouldn't _physically_ hurt him, he wasn't interested in being a betting man in this scenario.

So lamely, he told her, "Fine," before walking away from her.

As he limped away from her, sadness making his shoulders sag, Cuddy couldn't help but feel relieved. She also felt a little guilty, but for the most part, she was _relieved_ to know that he was giving her time.

He was probably terrified to allow her that – everything about him had indicated as much – but she _knew_ that it would be the best thing for all of them.

And trying to give her mind the space she knew it needed, Cuddy shook her head. As though she were willing away all of the _crap_ from work and information House had just told her, she blinked a few times before heading toward the kitchen table.

With a delicate clink, she put the bowl of oatmeal on the placemat in front of Rachel. "Here you go." As Cuddy handed her daughter a spoon, she prompted her, "What do you say?"

"Thank you."

Cuddy smiled. "You're welcome."

Happily Rachel began to eat the hot cereal House had made for her. Seemingly oblivious to the fight her mother and House were having, she could, Cuddy thought, provide an escape from all of the drama that had entered their lives.

And yet…

As she pulled a chair up next to Rachel's, Cuddy began to wonder how true that was. Sure, her daughter was struggling to get through kindergarten, but she wasn't an _idiot_. She wasn't _oblivious_, especially when it came to things she was living through. If anything, she knew, more than Cuddy did, what had happened this morning.

She knew what House had done.

But she'd said _nothing_.

And now, instead of being a way for Cuddy to calm down, Rachel was a part of the problem that Cuddy needed fix. Because now, Cuddy needed to know _why_.

Deciding to take a soft approach, she asked sweetly, "Do you like it?"

Rachel nodded her head enthusiastically. With her mouth full, she replied, "It's yummy."

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

Rachel swallowed hard. "Why not?"

"It's not polite," Cuddy explained, reaching forward to push a few dark strands of hair out of her daughter's face.

"Why not?"

"Because people don't want to see your food."

"But they do see it. It's in my bowl," Rachel said in a happy voice, clearly feeling as though she'd outsmarted her mother.

"This is different, so don't do it."

"But –"

"Don't argue with me, Rachel," Cuddy warned.

Rachel really wanted to. She really, really, _really_ did want to show Mommy just how wrong she was. But the thing about fighting with Mommy was that you never, _ever_ won, and by the time you knew you'd lost, you were already in a _lot _of trouble. So there wasn't any point in arguing.

But then Mommy said, "Lets talk about this morning instead," and Rachel didn't know what to say to that.

Hadn't they already talked about that?

"Did something happen between you and House?" Cuddy asked, sensing that she needed to be more direct.

Rachel nodded her head. "I gotted cookies," she said with a grin.

"I saw." It went without saying that her daughter was much happier about that fact than she was. "But I want to know more about what happened before I came home."

Her spoon hanging in midair, Rachel obviously tried to figure out what her mother was saying. "Uh… um… I don't know." And it was just as clear that Rachel assumed that, with that answer, she'd erased whatever curiosity was in her mother's mind. Because as soon as those words had left her mouth, she proposed, "I feed you? You be the baby."

Cuddy sighed, running a hand over her face. It went without saying that she wasn't in the mood to play games. But if she said no, Rachel would want to know why, and Cuddy knew she wouldn't know what to say. So she relented. "Just a couple bites, and then I'm the mommy again."

"Okay," Rachel said with a giggle as she scooped a giant heap of oatmeal onto her spoon. "Open up."

Cuddy did, but that didn't prevent the spoon from banging into her teeth as Rachel fed her. It was an accident, of course, but that hardly made Cuddy feel any better. And when Rachel did it again with the second bite of food, Cuddy was quick to announce, "Okay, Baby's fed. You eat the rest."

"You don't like it?" Rachel asked in a mournful tone, as though the oatmeal were her own personal creation and not House's.

Smiling, Cuddy shook her head. "I _loved_ it, which is why I'm letting you have it, okay?"

It sounded convincing enough, and Rachel, obviously swayed, said, "Okay," and began eating her breakfast once more.

And Cuddy took the opportunity to return to the conversation she'd been trying to have. "You know… you're not wearing the same pajamas you were wearing last night."

"Yeah."

"What happened, sweetheart?"

"I got wet," Rachel replied as though that were all the explanation needed.

"From when you were outside."

"Yup."

"And House helped you?" Rachel nodded her head but said nothing as she spooned the last bite of oatmeal into her mouth. "Did he hurt you?"

The question was one Cuddy _despised_ having to ask.

She didn't want to be in the position of doubting House and demanding answers from her daughter. Really, she just wanted to believe that House's account of this morning had been an accurate one and that, if there were someone really harming her, Rachel would _say_ something.

"All done," Rachel announced, dropping her spoon into the bowl with a loud clang.

"That's nice, but I asked you a question," Cuddy reminded her.

Rachel wrinkled her nose in confusion, her mind obviously turning as she tried to recall what the question was. But she must have remembered on her own, because after a moment or two, she said, "I was wet, and I was like rawr, I can't get naked, and he was like rawr, cause he said, 'I help you,' and then he grabbed me, and it hurt, so I said, 'That hurts,' and he let me go." She shrugged. "He 'pologize, so it was an accident."

Cuddy didn't dare breathe a sigh of relief.

She was too concerned that Rachel's meandering tale was a hallucination, was Cuddy's own mind trying to come up with some excuse for House's behavior.

"An accident?" Cuddy asked, needing to make sure.

"Uh huh. Like he didn't mean to," Rachel explained. "Like… like the time I pulled all the pedals off your flowers in the yard, and I said I didn't mean to…. But he _really_ didn't mean to." Clearly realizing that she'd just fessed up to a lie, she added, "Oops."

Her chubby hands covering her mouth, she was quick to try and get down from her chair. But she'd barely taken a step away from the table before Cuddy said, "Don't go anywhere. You need your medicine."

Rachel stopped in her tracks and obediently (though reluctantly) returned to her mother. "Do I _have_ to take it?" Cuddy nodded her head, which made Rachel frown, her lower lip quivering. "I don't want to."

"I know." Getting up, Cuddy carded her fingers through her daughter's hair to comfort her.

She supposed she should say _something_ about lying about the flowers, but that had happened over the summer. And Rachel had been punished then anyway (who would have believed that pulling the petal off of every flower in the garden was an _accident?_), so it seemed… pointless to harp on something that happened months ago.

Besides, it seemed mean-spirited to get angry when Rachel had just confirmed _everything_ Cuddy had wanted to hear.

Then again, when she put it that way, she didn't exactly feel at ease with the situation. Maybe she was just creating a problem in her own mind, but she didn't want it to be that Rachel was just telling her what she wanted to hear. What Cuddy wanted was to know that things hadn't been so horrible as to create any resentment – but more importantly, she wanted it to be the _truth_.

Of course, Rachel wasn't the kind of child who was bright enough to understand what kind of an answer her mother was working for, so chances were what she was saying was the truth. But nevertheless… Cuddy felt guilty.

Which was nothing new.

Between the hospital, House, and her daughter, it always –_ always_ – felt as though she were neglecting something or someone. Even if there were no rational reason to feel that way, she never ceased wondering if she was failing in some aspect.

In this case though, she had no doubt that she had. Whether Rachel was being honest or not, she _had_ been hurt, and House was sitting in the house somewhere, probably trying to figure out how soon he could call Wilson to help him move his things out.

And knowing that, Cuddy knew that she needed to resolve this situation one way or the other sooner rather than later.

As she pricked Rachel's finger for the glucose meter, Cuddy told her, "You know, I don't want you to tell me that House didn't hurt you if he did. No matter what happened, it's not your fault, and I don't want you to lie because you're afraid of my reaction."

Rachel looked at her as though she'd lost her mind. "Why would I do that?"

"Never mind," Cuddy replied, as she filled a syringe with the appropriate amount of insulin.

It was a sight Rachel did _not_ welcome.

Although she didn't run off, it was impossible to miss the way she tensed. Which was why it was almost surprising that she stayed still as Cuddy helped her expose an arm.

Of course, that changed the moment Cuddy began to deplete the needle. Again, Rachel didn't run away, but the way she was fidgeting was proof enough that she was considering it. "It's okay," Cuddy told her. "Almost done."

But the little girl hardly seemed relieved by those words, and it wasn't hard to understand why. This particular injection might end soon, but in a couple of hours, there would be another one, and a few hours from that, there would be another. And this pattern would repeat itself for the rest of Rachel's life, which meant that…

They would never be _done_.

And moments later, after Rachel had been comforted with a long hug, after Cuddy had disposed of the needle, as she started after House, Cuddy couldn't help but think that she knew all too well about exercises in futility.

Achieving any sort of normalcy with House was the best example of that she knew.

_Truly_, it seemed impossible for them to go days without fighting, without _something_ going wrong. And no matter how hard they tried, no matter how much they wanted to get along, something – whether it was the hospital or Rachel or _whatever_ – always seemed to derail things.

So much of their time spent reeling from skeletons in the closet or sick children or emotional landmines, Cuddy couldn't deny that sometimes… it felt like there would never be a time where they were free of problems.

Worse still, there were times where it felt like fighting to get past any of that wasn't worth it.

But she didn't doubt that there was a reason why she stayed.

Finally stumbling upon House, she knew, just from the sight of him, why she hadn't left.

She loved him.

It was just that simple (and complicated).

And it was incredibly apparent that he would need to hear her say that; he was sitting with his back to her, but he looked, even from this angle, incredibly defeated.

She wasn't surprised by that (who wouldn't be defeated in that situation?), but then she also wasn't surprised to find him here, in his office.

Of course, at one point it had been _her_ office. But when he'd moved in here, he'd very quickly needed his own space. Granted, he hadn't ever _said_ that, but between his tendency to bring his work home and Rachel's tendency to make noise, it had become clear that he needed a room for himself. And though Cuddy had hardly wanted to turn her basement into an office for herself, that had been the best option; House's leg wouldn't have been able to handle all those steps regularly, and once the basement had been painted and refurnished, it wasn't _that_ bad.

And there really was no denying that letting House have this space had made him happier. With it, he had a place to escape to, a place to keep all of the books and instruments and toys that he needed to help him focus or do whatever he needed to do to solve cases. So it was no surprise that she should find him here.

At the moment, he was sitting at his piano, though he wasn't playing. His back to the open door, she couldn't be sure that he had heard her enter. But either way, she had no desire to leave him wondering any longer.

Quickly closing the distance between them, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Immediately Cuddy could feel the nervous energy emanating from him. And though holding him like this was certainly a sign that she was forgiving him, she was surprised that the fear inside of him was so slow to disappear. As she pressed a kiss into his neck, she whispered, "It's okay. I'm not mad."

He bristled. His voice not quite strong enough to make the joke funny, he asked, "You sure you're not saying that, so I'll give you access to my balls?"

Hugging him from behind, she didn't answer his question. "House, I love you. And I know it was an accident."

He couldn't say that he _didn't_ want to believe her.

Really he did.

But at the same time, House had to wonder what had changed, what had happened to make her go from wanting to kill him to… _this_. Because he'd been so sure when he'd sat down at his piano, the music refusing to flow through him, that she would end things. And though it was great that she hadn't…

He had to know why.

Refusing to look at her, he asked, "What made you change your mind?"

"Nothing," she answered, her hands moving back to his tense shoulders. As she began to rub his aching muscles, she explained, "I told you I needed some time, and I did."

He frowned at her lack of a clear answer. "To…"

"To, I don't know, forget about the _massive_ headache work was, so that I wasn't taking that out on you?"

When he didn't say anything in response, she knew that he didn't believe her. She knew that he was thinking that that had never stopped her before, just as she knew there was no real denying that he was basically right about that.

Sighing, she pulled away from him, so she could sit down on the piano bench beside him. Her side pressed against his, she looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry I made you wait. I just… I needed to calm down. _I_ needed to know that I wasn't reacting to _anything_ else – just you and _this_."

"Right."

Reaching over she stroked one of his cheeks. "We're both so stupid," she confessed, her lips lightly frowning. "I just don't want to be the one to make things unbearable."

Intuitively, he knew exactly what she meant. As often as they fought, in the back of their minds, there always had to be the question of how far to push, how cruel you could be before you'd destroyed the damn thing. Other couples might have been successful at attempts to _not_ fight. But House knew that what he had with Cuddy was different; as hard as they tried to avoid arguments, they were never very good at it. Which _only_ left them the option of working as hard as they could to cocoon their relationship from the more volatile aspects of their personalities.

If she was doing that now, he understood entirely. "But you're comfortable with _me_ taking on that job," he said with a smirk.

She inched her face closer to his, perhaps sensing that the clouds had passed. "You are better at the rabble rousing and –"

Cuddy didn't get a chance to finish the thought; his mouth insistently pressed against hers prevented her from doing that. It went without saying that she didn't mind. Her own lips eager to kiss him back, she _did_ however mind when he almost instantly pulled away.

"I'm sorry," he told her honestly.

She stroked his cheek. "I know that." Leaning forward, she offered him a chaste kiss for reassurance. "I'm not mad."

Accepting her words as the truth, House intended to reap the benefit of having a fight:

Make up sex.

But he'd barely had a chance to place a hand on her thigh, when she sighed out, "Don't."

"`Don't'?" The words sounded odd on his tongue.

Looking at her carefully to make sure he'd understood her correctly, he could see the dismay in her eyes. "I have to start getting Rachel ready," she explained, her lips turning downward into a frown.

"So?" Undeterred he allowed his hand to slide along her thigh. "It's not going to take me that long…"

"Of that I have no doubt," she replied dryly. "But considering my job right now is to shove Rachel into a whole lot of spandex, I just don't have the _thirty seconds_ necessary to get you off to spare."

"Hey," he whined, as she stood up, a wide smile on her face.

"Besides, you need to get ready to go too."

House frowned. Whatever friskiness he'd been feeling had… _died_ at the idea of sitting through a dance recital. "I'm not going to that."

"Yes, you are."

"_Why_?"

"Because you agreed to come," she pointed out, her arms folding across her chest. "If you'll recall, we have an agree-"

"That old thing? I was just saying that to get laid," he interrupted, trying to brush her off.

But she simply shook her head. "Get dressed. You're not getting out of this."

The scowl on his face remained there long after they'd arrived at the school.

The car ride there hadn't helped obviously; Rachel's constant chattering about how she was the blue jay and Nathan Ellis (whoever the hell that was) was the lowly blue bird in the recital had simply given House a headache. And that, coupled with all the cheery parents he was now surrounded by, was just reinforcing House's belief that Hell was a far better alternative to this.

It also didn't help that Cuddy had _abandoned_ him in the school cafeteria in order to take Rachel backstage. Not that wading through the swarms of little children backstage was any better, of course, but standing around with the other parents wasn't exactly fun either.

As if to reinforce that point, the pair of housewives next to him were talking about their little Braden and Chloe and how those two were the cutest and the smartest and blah, blah, _blah_, and all House wanted to do was run away as quickly as possible.

He couldn't escape though.

Even if this was, quite possibly, the most _painful_ experience of his life, he couldn't leave. Cuddy had driven them here, and as such, she had the keys with her. And though walking home _was_ tempting, House knew that he wouldn't get very far, thanks to his leg and all of the snow.

Which wasn't to say he _wasn't_ considering it.

Collapsing in a ditch filled with dirty snow didn't sound like a lot of fun, but it _definitely _sounded better than staying here.

Yet he didn't get a chance to decide either way, because it was at that moment that Cuddy returned to his side.

A smile on her face, she reached for his hand, effectively trapping him where he was. Her fingers threading through his, he said under his breath, "Please tell me you're smiling because some of the birds got into a fight and we have to leave."

"Actually, the instructor for the preschoolers forgot the music at her home, so everything's been pushed back twenty minutes while she goes to get it," Cuddy told him.

It was at that moment that House understood how Rachel must have felt when she'd learned that Cuddy didn't celebrate Christmas. There really didn't seem to be any other equivalent experience that could cause the same amount of disappointment.

Barely resisting the urge to throw himself on the ground and have a tantrum that would make Rachel proud, House muttered, "You have no idea how painful this –"

"It's not that bad," she told him under her breath.

"That's because you haven't been standing here hearing how little Teddy and Fifi are the bestest, _wittle_ children in the whole wide world," he replied in a shrill tone that replicated the voice of the two women he'd had to listen to.

Luckily for him though, the two mothers had overheard his impression, and, muttering insults under their breath, they walked away.

"And once again, you're making friends wherever you go," Cuddy said.

He frowned mockingly. "But I wanted to be invited to the Tupperware party."

Cuddy was not amused. "Tell me what I have to do to keep you from –"

"Lets have sex," he interrupted.

At first, she didn't quite understand. Well, she _understood_, but she was unsure as to how serious he was being. And then she remembered that she was talking about _House_, who had never discovered a situation he felt _couldn't_ be improved by sex.

Knowing that he was being absolutely serious, she immediately dropped his hand. A scowl on her own face, she whined, "This is a _school_."

"So?"

She groaned a little, rubbing her hand over her face. "I can't believe… where would we even _go_?"

"There's a bathroom straight down that hallway," he answered with a flick of his hand. "It's out of order, so nobody's using it. But if someone were to ask us, you've probably got enough of Rachel's medication in your bag that you could say we were having some sort of medical –"

"Oh God, you've thought this through."

"Well, what else I was supposed to do?"

At that point, she wasn't sure what to do or say. On the one hand, she wanted to ask him how he could be _such_ a pervert; most of his blood flow seemingly _always_ keeping his penis afloat, really, she wanted to ask him how he had managed to _survive_ for so long. Shouldn't there have been some serious brain damage at this point?

But then, on the other hand, regardless of what his answer was, the fact still remained that _she_ was in love with him. And what did it say about her that she could love someone like House? More importantly, what did it say about her that she was actually contemplating having sex in a _school_?

In her mind, she tried to justify that. She'd watched him come this morning, and then she had been worked into a frenzy by him. But he'd denied her any sort of release, and work had only made her more tense (as had the news of House accidentally hurting Rachel), and really, having sex _did_ sound like a good idea.

Doing it _here_ hardly seemed ideal though.

But then again, she was with House, so she supposed it didn't really matter if they had sex in a bathroom. It was almost guaranteed – _no matter what_ – that they would be thrown out of the school. Whether he said something offensive to someone or did something awful or they got caught having sex, there would more than likely be _something_ that had Cuddy leaving the school in shame.

So if that was going to happen one way or the way, she supposed she could choose the circumstances. And at least if she chose sex, she would get laid in the process, which was a _huge_ plus.

"Fine," she capitulated, as though it were actually more of a nuisance than it felt.

For a brief moment, House could only blink. But as soon as the words sunk in, he was reaching for her hand and practically dragging her through the throng of people.

Walking quickly to keep up with him, she told him in a voice quiet enough so that only he could hear, "You don't have to act like we've never had sex before." Especially since everyone else seemed to move away from them at the sight of House's cane, it seemed incredibly stupid to act like the world was going to end if they didn't have sex in a bathroom right this second.

But if he even considered what she had to say, he didn't offer any reply until she'd locked the bathroom door behind her.

"See? No one will even know we're in here," he told her.

And Cuddy couldn't deny that he had a point. Not a collection of stalls, the bathroom was only meant for one person to use at a time, which meant that, even if someone were to ignore the out of order sign, they _still_ wouldn't be able to get in now.

"We have twenty minutes," she reminded him.

As she hung both of their coats on the hook nailed into the bathroom door, she felt him creep up behind her. His hands squeezing her ass appreciatively, he asked her, "You want me to take all twenty?"

"I want you to go as long as it takes for me to get off," she told him in a husky voice.

Turning around to face him, she wasn't surprised to see that his scowl had been replaced by an arrogant smirk. "Like that'll be hard," he said sardonically. "Why don't you ask me to tie my shoes as well?"

Her hands on his chest, she pushed him toward the toilet. "Shut up."

And yet, although he _did_ go where she wanted, he made no move to sit down on the toilet seat. Annoyed she ordered him, "Sit."

"No."

Glancing at him, she could see that he thought that such an act would be disgusting.

"Why not?"

He sighed. "I'm guessing this bathroom is out of order for a reason and –"

"And you're just _now_ thinking of this," Cuddy snapped angrily. "Your little rat maze of a brain didn't consider all of the implications of using an out-of-order restroom to –"

"_Relax_. We'll just use something else."

But she knew that that was only an answer for someone who hadn't even remotely considered the other options.

"Like what?" she asked. "The sink? It's for _children_. It's too short," she pointed out, her hand gesturing towards the white porcelain.

Immediately House knew that she was right; the damn thing was the perfect size if you were Rachel's height, but it wouldn't line their bodies up properly.

… Unless he wanted a blow job, but House was smart enough to know that his dick plus Cuddy's mouth was _not_ going to be a good combination at the moment.

"Or what?" Cuddy demanded, interrupting his thoughts. "You're going to pick me up? Cause that worked out so well the last time."

He rolled his eyes. In all of their years of having sex with one another, the _one time_ it ended in disaster and stitches was the one she was _never_ going to let him live down. "Well, you try lifting your ass into the air without a crane," he grumbled loudly.

For a brief second, as soon as the words had been uttered, he'd expected her to quash this little rendezvous that hadn't even truly begun. She was looking angry enough to do that, and though he didn't think he'd said anything all _that_ bad, it was a known fact that Cuddy was evil and therefore occasionally took offense to things that were not, in _any_ way, offensive.

But instead, she reached down in the space between them. His eyes trained on hers, he didn't dare look away; unlike with most feral animals, maintaining eye contact with Cuddy was necessary to avoid being hurt.

Yet, despite keeping his gaze on her face, he knew exactly what she was doing. He could hear her undoing his pants, could feel the way her knuckles were scraping along his lower stomach in order to push his jeans down to his ankles.

Why that was so sexy, he didn't think he could articulate. But between that and the way she was biting her lip as she completed her task, House could feel himself hardening in his underwear.

As she ordered him, "Now, _sit down_," he had to wonder if that was normal. Not the ordering, of course (he'd watched enough porn to know that domination was anything but abnormal), but he did wonder about the effect she had on his body.

How could he not?

He'd known her on and off since she was a teenager (and she definitely wasn't anywhere near teenaged now). He'd been dating her for a couple years now; there was nothing about her body that he had not seen, _experienced_ before. In fact, if he did the math (and he wouldn't, because if he did, he'd never forget the number), they'd probably had sex over a thousand times. Which meant that he should have been _way_ over her body by now.

But as he reluctantly sat on the toilet, his shorts the only thing keeping him from things he was trying _very hard_ not to think about, he couldn't even pretend that he was unaffected by the sight of her.

At the moment, she was hiking up the skirt of her dress, bunching the material in the hopes that it would stay around her waist. And she knew it was a ridiculous sight, but they were having sex in an elementary school bathroom; if he expected better presentation, she was going to drown him in the toilet.

However, as she allowed her gaze to wander over his entire body, she could tell that he was anything but disappointed. The fabric of his dark gray boxer briefs were tented, his eyes intently watching her as she moved to stand in front of him.

Her knees bumping into his, she couldn't stop herself from offering them one last out. "How's your leg?"

It was a bad question to ask, one that she hated asking, but after hearing that Rachel had grabbed him, Cuddy knew that it needed to be asked. And besides, if he were in a lot of pain, they would probably have to stop, and having done that plenty of times in the past, she knew that it was much easier never to begin than to be left unsatisfied and sweaty in the middle.

Rolling his eyes, House reached into the slit of his underwear. Palming his own hot flesh, he eagerly pulled his cock, hard and already leaking pre-cum, out for her to see. "Much better than little Greg is at the moment," he answered her honestly.

Moving to straddle him, she practically purred, "I think I can take care of that." And then her voice more disapproving, she added, "As long as you stop naming our various body parts.

Shoving her panties to the side with her fingers, Cuddy didn't give him a chance to reply. Taking her time, she slowly sank down on him. House guiding his penis into her, her knuckles brushed against his thumb as he penetrated her fully.

Letting go of her underwear, she placed her hands on his shoulders. He was wearing a suit coat and t-shirt, but even under all of that, the heat was beginning to pour from him, as it always did.

She gave herself a few experimental bobs on his cock, shifting her hips each time to maximize the angle of their bodies.

"No, no," he said through gritted teeth, the feel of her body wrapped around his more than he could bear. "Make yourself feel comfortable. I'll just sit here and mate with some _E. coli_ instead."

"You're unbearable," she told him, pressing a kiss to his lips to shut him up.

But as she began to move up and down on his shaft, the kiss was truly unnecessary in keeping him quiet. The steady pace she was creating, the feeling of her wetness snug against his cock, was more than enough to make whatever irritation he'd been feeling evaporate.

One of his hands moving to the back of her head, he deepened the kiss. Their breath hot against one another, his tongue lightly probing, the hushed tenderness was a complete contrast to the way she was forcing herself onto his length over and over.

It burned a little; the fact of the matter was she hadn't been as wet as she would have liked before taking him in her body. But that friction felt _good_. The burn was something she could feel herself craving.

The idea that she was forcing her body to accept him made her hot from head to toe and wet precisely where she was driving him into her. Problem solved.

She moaned at the thought, grunted as he moved his other hand to her panty-clad ass. His fingertips practically burning her through the fabric, it was impossible to miss the way he was caressing her.

Just as it was impossible for him to miss the way her muscles shifted as she undulated above him.

He watched her – he couldn't tear his eyes away – do all the work for them both. Though he had come earlier in the day, watching her essentially fuck herself with his dick made the point moot. She was grinding on top of him, her breasts heavily swaying with each movement. She might have been totally clothed, but he could see the outline of her hardened nipples, could feel her juices smearing themselves along his dick.

_God_, this was what he wanted, he thought.

Both of his hands moving to her ass, he squeezed her tightly. Which just made her even more incessant with need. As she picked up the pace, as she forced herself onto his cock as hard and as far as she could go, he felt himself instinctively trying to thrust upwards to meet her movements.

Noise from the hallway was trickling in to the bathroom, but it was nothing compared to the sound of his balls slapping against her ass or the way she was moaning into his mouth.

And nothing could compare to feel of his dick being driven into her. Her damp muscles holding him in a vice-like grip, it would have been painful if not for his own need.

Her fingers tightening on his shoulders, she murmured, "I'm close."

He smirked. "Like you need to tell me that."

"Go to hell." But her words hardly had any anger in them.

At that moment, her underwear a tangled, wet mess trapped between their bodies, the fabric accidentally began to rub her clit with each thrust. A perfect accident, Cuddy couldn't help but moan, "House."

She was becoming less controlled with her thrusts, her hips moving, shaking unevenly in a way that only accentuated their lust for one another. His hands palming her ass, he tried – to no avail – to make her movement more even, just for the sake of prolonging things a little longer.

But it didn't really matter either way.

She was too worked up, too heated by the way he was filling her, the way the head of his cock was rubbing her in all of the right places, to do anything but come.

Something approaching a scream barely getting caught in her throat, she choked out a "Yes" as she came. Her hips jerking wildly as he reached between their bodies and caught her clit with his index and middle finger, her orgasm seized hold of her. That feeling of intense pleasure knocking the breath out of her, she felt as asthmatic as Rachel.

Cuddy panted, moaned loudly, her lungs rasping with desire, but she didn't stop moving. Her muscles clenching him tightly, she kept moving, bouncing up and down, until she forced a groan out of House's mouth.

And then he came with a powerful thrust into her that threatened to unseat her altogether.

Her fingers clung to him until her knuckles hurt. Feeling his come flood the inside of her body, she held onto him as he rode out those last few moments of pleasure. Pressing her face to his shoulder, she could feel his hot breath on her sweaty neck. And she couldn't help but smile.

He was just as breathless, just as hopeless as she was.

When she pulled away from him, as she assessed both their bodies, she couldn't help but think that they both looked awful. They were sweaty, their clothes askew. "We look terrible," she remarked as she reached for some toilet paper to wipe away the fluid trapped between her thighs.

House had no comment, which was truly a testament to how he spent he was. Of course, Cuddy refused to see that as a _bad_ thing. If he did nothing more than quietly nap during Rachel's recital, Cuddy would be happy.

As she fixed her twisted panties and pulled her dress down, she told him, "You need to fix yourself." But he just looked at her as though he had no idea what he was talking about. Rolling her eyes, she reluctantly sunk to her knees in front of him. Wordlessly taking his wet cock into her mouth, she gently licked their fluids off of him.

She heard him gasp in surprise, in pleasure. But as quickly as she'd slipped him between her lips, she pulled him back out of her mouth and tucked him into his underwear.

Finally finding his voice, he asked her hoarsely, "You gonna pull my pants up with your teeth next?"

She smirked as she stood back up. "Come on."

But knowing what he was about to sit through, he _really_ didn't want to move. Of course, he also knew that he couldn't stay in a kid's bathroom all day. But it was with reluctance that he stood up and dressed himself.

By the time he'd pulled up his pants and rebuttoned them, Cuddy was fixing her make up and hair in front of the sink. Their eyes meeting in the mirror's reflection, she asked him, "How fucked do I look?"

"Very."

She really did.

Because even though everything about her looked fine, everything had been put back in its proper place, there was still something about her that screamed _fucked_ – for him, anyway. She looked too relaxed to be anything other than freshly laid.

"Great," she muttered before reaching for her coat. "I'll be known as the mother who couldn't keep it in her pants long enough to watch her child dance."

As he grabbed his cane, he pointed out, "There's not a straight man or lesbian in that audience who'll find that a fault."

"Well, that's just even better," she said sarcastically, grabbing his free hand as they headed back out into the hallway. "What you're saying is that there are still plenty of people here to judge me."

"Have you seen what you're wearing?" he asked suddenly. "The twins practically hanging out like that –"

"They're not _hanging_."

"They were judging you anyway," he continued, undeterred by her interruption.

Seeing as how everyone else was filtering into the auditorium, Cuddy and House followed their lead by walking that way as well. "Thank you so much," she told him sarcastically.

"Hey. You made me come to this. The least you can do is keep me entertained by letting everyone else think you're a whore."

Naturally, this earned him a step on the foot as they entered one of the rows to sit down. It wouldn't have hurt so bad (really, how much could Cuddy weigh?) except she was wearing high heels. And even through his sneakers, he could feel her shoe driving into him like a stake. "Watch it," he whined.

She turned to look at him, a mocking pout on her face. "Oh, honey, you've made me listen to you whine all morning. The least you can do is let me cause you as much pain as you've caused me."

With a sense of finality, she sat down in her seat. And he, knowing that it was too late to run, joined her.

One of his hands quick to pick at the peeling paint of his seat, _she_ was just as quick to stop him. Her fingers curling around his, she told him, "It won't be that bad."

And she was right about that; it wasn't that bad.

It was worse.

_So_ much worse.

The preschoolers set the tone for this abortion of a display of music and dance. Dressed up like little foxes, they danced to Peter, Paul, and Mary's "The Fox." Although… "dancing" was a bit of stretch, as most of the kids were falling over their own foxtails or someone else's. Thankfully, the number came to an end quickly, when one of the kids tripped over three tails in a row and nearly fell off the stage.

And House felt relieved at seeing all the sniveling brats stumble off stage. If only because it meant that Rachel was next, he was happy.

Only… she wasn't next. Apparently, there were four – _four_ – preschool classes who needed to perform first. As a bunch of kids dressed as tulips accidentally yanked each other's leaves off, House turned to Cuddy. "Why doesn't anyone believe in birth control anymore?"

She glowered at him. "Rachel's up next. We won't have to sit through this much longer."

And that much he believed to be true. As each class made asses of themselves, parents were filtering in and out; nobody was cruel enough, thank God, to make the adults sit through the entire thing. By the time Rachel even made it to the stage, nearly ten percent of the audience had shown themselves out.

Which was their loss, because in the end… Rachel wasn't awful.

Dancing around in a bright blue costume, designed with black and white patches to resemble a blue jay, she was actually kind of… good. Well, House amended immediately, good as in wasn't falling over on her ass like every other kid that had come before her. She wasn't perfect, not by any means, but she was able to keep in time with the music (which was unfortunate, because he'd been really hoping to say, "At least her chins are in time"). And that was good, because, being a bright blue bird, who was fatter than everyone else on the stage, drew, in his estimation, everyone's eyes to her.

Venturing a glance toward Cuddy, House was not surprised to see the surprise and pride in her gaze. She hadn't been expecting any better from Rachel, but it was clear that Cuddy didn't think she could have asked for anything better.

But the joy in her eyes was short lived.

As he watched her, he saw her look of happiness change – first to a look of confusion and then one of dismay. And House, curious, quickly turned his attention back to the recital.

Immediately he understood. No longer dancing, Rachel was standing over one of the other birds, a wisp of a child decorated in orange, black, and white.

Cuddy, leaning toward House, asked reluctantly, "Is she _kicking_ that robin?"

House scoffed. "Don't be a moron." His eyes squinting so he could get a better look, he told her, "She's kicking an oriole."

_To be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Notes: Thanks to HouseBroken, menolly-au, huddyholic, Patricia Dubose, 90, dmarchi, Temo, Sydney, red blood, liskner, Huddyphoric, Neelie2009, faboosh, lurker, Jane Q. Doe, tuckp3, and lin12344 for taking the time to read and review! It means a lot to me.

_Disclaimer: If I owned it, Lucas would have died in a fire a long time ago. Clearly, it's not mine. _

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Six: Drowning**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

Since Rachel had started school, Cuddy had had the displeasure of sitting through many a dance recital. And each time, without fail, she'd thanked God that the school had had the policy of letting parents leave after each round of atrocious performances. From the school's perspective, they could use the time it took for the parents to leave to change the decorations on the stage and set up different camera angles for the overpriced DVDs they sold after the fact. There was no doubt in her mind that this small allowance was more than paid for in the excessive tuition Rachel's school charged, but Cuddy had never minded that.

And right now, in this particular moment, she knew that she had never been more grateful to pay for the privilege of walking out after Rachel's dancing.

Well, dancing was clearly too generous a word for what these children were doing. Though they'd all started out as dancers, though Rachel had started the fight with one of the kids in the class, as the seconds had ticked by, other students had joined in on the action. A blue bird and a cardinal were pecking at each other with the beaks on their headpieces; a Canadian goose was punching some other boy in the testicles, and there were others fighting as well.

Absolutely _no one_ was dancing.

And when the curtain was promptly dropped in mid-song, there was no applause.

Except for House.

He, thoroughly entertained by the fight that had broken out, sat next to her clapping as enthusiastically as she'd ever seen him.

Her own hands immediately grabbing at his, she told him in a threatening voice, "Stop that."

Uncharacteristically, he obeyed, silently letting her lead him out of the auditorium. But once they were back in the cafeteria, he told her, "If I had known these things would be like the W.W.E, I –"

"This isn't funny," Cuddy interrupted angrily. He might have thought this was all very entertaining, but _she_ knew better. _She_ knew that that fight would lead to every parent in the school blaming her _personally_ for ruining the stupid recital and, more than likely, a meeting with the principal.

"Sure, it is."

She gave him a dark look. "What part of me having to walk out of here with the _stench_ of _shame _is amusing to –"

"Shame?" he asked in surprise. "You sleep with me. What shame could you possibly have left?" When she elbowed him in the ribs at the remark, he hastily added, "Well, at least we know where Rachel gets her violent side from."

"Fine," Cuddy snapped, throwing her hands in the air. "Since you're so amused, _you_ can go backstage and grab her and deal with all of those angry parents."

_That_ stopped House in his tracks. Literally ceasing to move in the middle of the hallway, he forced her to stop as well and turn around. His eyes filled with dismay, he told her, "I'm not going back there."

She smirked, hands on her hips. "And why not?"

"I'm not her father, and –"

"We're so aware," she interrupted.

"_And_," he repeated, accentuating the word to show his annoyance. "They're not going to let her go with some stranger."

Briefly Cuddy's eyes roved over his form. Conceding the point, she admitted, "Well, you do seem like the type."

"_And_ when they think I'm interested in doing some diddling, they're going to call _you_. And _then_ you're going to have to go back and admit that you actually know me," he pointed out.

Nodding her head, she replied, "Well admitting that I know you _is_ rather embarrassing."

"That's cute, sugar tits, but I'm thinking it's going to be much more humiliating to admit that you wanted me to pick Mowgli up, so you could avoid being called a bad parent."

There was no arguing that point. She wanted to, but Cuddy knew that she couldn't, because he was _right_… unfortunately.

"Fine," she mumbled as she began to dig through her purse for her keys. Finally finding them, she handed them to House. "I will get Rachel. You go get the car." He nodded his head in agreement, but she was quick to add, "Don't you dare think about leaving me here in this hell hole."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"And don't call me _sugar tits_," she hissed under her breath.

He didn't have a chance to respond before she'd walked away. But not really feeling the fight they seemed to be on the verge of having, he didn't exactly mind that she left.

He _did_ mind having to wade through the freshly iced and snow-covered parking lot, but even then, navigating through that was _way_ better than hoards of children and their anal retentive parents.

That thought was confirmed when he pulled the car up to the curb in front of an angry Cuddy minutes later. For him, the time away from her had been tense; the fear of falling or twisting his leg had made getting the car a rather nerve wracking experience. But in the end, he'd been okay, using the hoods and trunks of everyone else's vehicles to aid his balance, and his torment had come to an end the second he got into the car.

Yet it was very clear that Cuddy's had just begun.

When he pulled up next to her, Rachel pressed to her side, Cuddy looked absolutely livid.

How could she not be though? When she'd left House to go get her daughter, she'd known precisely what she was getting into – screaming little children and angry parents all pointing a finger at Rachel (and by extension at Cuddy's parenting). But actually being in it had been much more difficult than Cuddy had imagined.

The second she'd stepped into the big room that housed all of the non-performing children she had felt the tension. Granted, it hadn't, at that point, been directed at _her_; most of the kids and parents who had been complaining or picking up their children hadn't known she was the mother of the unruly blue jay. But naturally Cuddy had known that that would need to change if she wanted to leave with Rachel.

And so it had been with reluctance that Cuddy had ventured further into the room. Her steps as tentative as she'd been able to make them, by the time she'd found Rachel, the children's ire towards one another had died down; in fact, no longer arguing, they'd been apologizing to one another. Sure, it had been in that terse sort of way that could only mean that the dance instructor had forced them to. But at least it had meant that Cuddy wouldn't need to take Rachel around to apologize to each child in the most painstaking manner.

However, Cuddy would have had to have been quite foolish to think that she'd be able to get away unscathed, and indeed, in the end, she _hadn't_ been able to get away scot-free. Her daughter having seen her, Rachel had run toward her. "Mommy."

Cuddy had barely enough time to wipe the sweat off of her daughter's brow before the teacher, a lithe woman who made Cuddy herself seem large, had approached the two of them. "You're Rachel's mother?"

What Cuddy had really wanted to say had been something along the lines of "No, she's just saying 'Mommy,' because she has Tourette's." But knowing her luck, there probably would have been someone with Tourette's in the room, and it just hadn't been worth a potential fight. So she'd simply answered, "Yes."

"We need to talk, if you have the time."

Cuddy had nodded her head before looking down at her daughter. "Honey, why don't you go get your coat?" Rachel, clearly knowing when she wasn't wanted, had run off as soon as the suggestion had been uttered.

"I think it would be best if we were to continue this conversation in my office," the teacher had said, gesturing to the little room annexed to the right.

"That's fine." Really, it hadn't been, but what other options did Cuddy really have?

Once they'd entered the small room, the teacher – whose name Cuddy still didn't know – had offered her a seat on a ratty couch. Naturally, the offer had been declined. And with that small amount of politeness out of way, the dance instructor had gone straight to the heart of the matter. "I don't believe that I need to tell you how much time, effort, and funding we spend to put on these productions every season."

Cuddy had smiled as best as she could, all the while knowing that it would look more like a grimace in the end. "No, you don't. I'm well aware that my daughter's behavior was a disruption, and I can assure you that it won't happen again." Her tone had been perfunctory, the kind she normally used when she was talking to donors.

"I hope you're right about that. We already make special accommodations for your daughter and her… _health_ problems."

Truth be told, there hadn't been anything in the woman's choice of words that had been offensive. If anything, they'd been accurate ones; no doubt, the school had had to make accommodations for Rachel's asthma, hypothyroidism, and diabetes, the alternative being that Rachel die on their watch.

But that hadn't been what the teacher had been getting at.

Cuddy had been able to tell.

"You mean she's fat, and that's hard for you."

"Well…" The woman hadn't wanted to say yes, but it had been something she couldn't deny either. "It's just that it's very hard to find costumes that will fit her, and then, even when we do, it's difficult to get through the practices, because the other children say –"

"I see," Cuddy had replied coolly, turning around to open the door to leave.

"Ms. Cuddy, please don't take this the wrong way. All I'm trying to say is that the other children find her to be a distraction, and –"

The glare Cuddy had given her had silenced her immediately.

"This is what's going to happen," Cuddy had told her in a voice that dared her to disagree. "I'm going to take my daughter home now. I will punish her for disrupting the recital. You, on the other hand, will handle any complaints the other parents have – and we both know they _will_. And when they do complain, you can tell them whatever you want. But you won't be placing the blame at my daughter's feet unless you want me to tell your boss that –"

The other woman had balked at the order. "You can't do that."

"Believe me when I say that I can. I will tell the fool who hired you that you are seemingly incapable of stopping a crowd of five year olds from verbally abusing my daughter, and seeing as how silly you were to even tell me that this happened, much less try to blame it on _my_ daughter, I think your boss will have absolutely no problem believing me," Cuddy had explained.

And that had been the end of the conversation, unless one were to count the way the dance instructor had muttered, "Bitch," as Cuddy had left.

Honestly, Cuddy didn't really mind the insult. When she was younger, it clearly had bothered her, but at this point in her life, if she were to be upset every time someone said _that_ word to her, she would be upset... frequently. And for her own sanity's sake, she knew she couldn't let it bother her.

But in this case, she was upset nonetheless.

Her encounter with Rachel's teacher had been brief, and though Cuddy wasn't angry about the _personal_ insult, she _was_ decidedly not at ease with knowing what she now knew about Rachel's day-to-day life.

As she helped Rachel into the car, Cuddy couldn't help but think about what she'd just learned; the other kids spent their days making fun of her daughter, and the teacher who was supposed to put a stop to all of it resented Rachel for it.

"Are you going to get in or just stand there?" House demanded, interrupting Cuddy's own rather unpleasant thoughts.

Nodding her head, she silently closed Rachel's door and got into the car. As they drove home in silence, Cuddy focused her attention on the snowy scenery outside of her window; though she could feel the occasional glance from House, she had no desire to explain to him what had happened.

Or rather, she _did_ want to tell him, but she didn't want to discuss it in front of Rachel. And even setting that aside, the likelihood that House wouldn't care was too great to make her think that anything other silent rumination was a bad choice.

Besides, when what she wanted was an explanation as to why her daughter seemed _incapable_ of confiding in her, what could House say that would make things any better? What could he do or say?

She wanted reassurance from him, wanted the kind of comfort his intelligence could provide her. But the fact of the matter was he didn't know any more than she did as to why Rachel was so secretive. And that meant that Cuddy's only option was to talk to Rachel herself.

That was all easier said than done though. At the moment, Rachel was sitting in the backseat, her arms folded across her chest. Her lips turned downward into a distinct pout, she was unmistakably angry about being in trouble. In the short time they'd been together, Cuddy hadn't said anything about the recital (and Rachel, clearly knowing that she'd done something bad, hadn't asked), but Rachel knew that she wasn't going to get away with what she'd done. And knowing that some form of punishment was in her near future, she was _not_ going to be interested in confiding in her mother.

As if to prove that point, the second House pulled the car into the driveway and Rachel was freed from the vehicle, she took off running. Neither House nor Cuddy chased after her; he didn't care enough to follow, and she knew that Rachel didn't have anywhere to go. Hell, even if she _did_, Cuddy knew that Rachel wouldn't get very far.

Indeed, she didn't. Rachel ran across the driveway as fast as she could, her little feet and chubby legs moving as quickly as they were physically capable of going. But she wasn't light or quick enough to avoid slipping on the ice that was now very clearly covering the walkway to the front door in a thin sheet.

Tripping over herself, she screamed before belly flopping into the snow next to the front steps.

House, of course, responded with a blasé "Again?"

But Cuddy was not so immune to the sight of her daughter being hurt, and she took off running to get to her child. Eagerly pulling Rachel out of the snow, Cuddy enfolded the little girl in her arms. "Are you all right?

Feet and hands trying to push her away was the answer Cuddy received.

"You need to be careful," Cuddy reminded her daughter in a tone that wasn't so much admonishing as it was soothing.

"Let me go," Rachel whined.

Cuddy went to respond, but House interrupted her; as he slowly made his way up the sidewalk, he loudly, _obnoxiously_ chuckled at the sight of the two Rachel-shaped outlines disturbing the otherwise pristine snow. And when Cuddy glared at him in response, he decided to press her buttons even further by tapping the ground with his cane. "It's getting a little icy. You should stop indulging yourself in the theatre arts and _frolicking_ in toilets and start shoveling."

"Go away," Cuddy responded irritably. Not even giving him a chance to respond, she turned her attention back to Rachel. "Come on," she told her, clasping her daughter's hand tightly in hers. "You need a time out right –"

"_No_," Rachel argued, trying to pull away from her mother. Her feet losing traction on the slippery ice once more, she began to fall; only Cuddy's grip held her up, and even then, Rachel was still trying to worm her way to freedom.

But Cuddy refused to let go. Instead choosing to tug her daughter toward the front door, she reminded Rachel of what had happened. "_Yes_. You _attacked_ one of your fellow classmates. You disrupted your recital, and you _know_ better. You _know_ we don't hit people."

"That's right," House piped up as he unlocked the front door. "Hitting is for people who aren't clever enough to craft a decent insult."

Cuddy glared at him.

He could tell that inwardly she wanted to smack him, but they both knew she couldn't. Not that she _would_ anyway, but he knew she would have at least liked to threaten him with it. And when she couldn't, she only had the option of saying through gritted teeth, "You are _not_ helping."

What she seemed to fail to understand was that that had been his point; he hadn't been trying to help (as usual). But almost immediately he had to rectify that belief, because she said, talking to Rachel, "And don't listen to him. He's just trying to make trouble."

As soon as the words had come out, Cuddy was sure that they had been unnecessary. Since when had Rachel _ever_ listened to House? Since when had he hoped that she _would_?

Knowing the answers to those questions, Cuddy didn't need to consider the matter any further. In the end, he was simply trying to get a rise out of her, and that was all there was to it.

So much for being an understanding partner, she lamented.

"I don't have time for this," she told him, pushing past him, with Rachel in her grip.

Really, Cuddy didn't. House might have wanted her world to revolve around him, but the truth of the matter was that she had more important things to deal with right now; work, House, all of the crap that had happened between Rachel and him this morning – none of that mattered right now. Not even attacking some helpless child, the act for which Rachel was being punished, concerned Cuddy all that much right now.

It _mattered_, of course, but honestly, Cuddy was more interested in getting this time out over with, so she could talk to Rachel about what her teacher had said.

Rachel, however, didn't seem to share the same sense of urgency.

She wasn't stupid.

Everybody at school thought she was, but she wasn't dumb. She knew what was going to happen. She was going to have to sit on the naughty rug in the hallway and stay there for _forever_. Okay, maybe it was only five minutes, but that was a really long time! And Rachel knew she hadn't done anything _that_ bad, so really, she shouldn't have to sit there for even a second. _And_ she couldn't exactly tell time, so that made it even _worse_.

But she couldn't get away.

Her free hand pushed against Mommy as hard as it could, but Mommy had snatched her too tightly. She was holding on like… like….

Rachel tried to come up with a way to finish that thought, but it was hard. Eventually settling for the way, in _Sleeping Beauty_, Maleficent's jaw (when she was a dragon) made snappy 'cha' sounds, Rachel decided her mother's grip felt like that.

"No!" she screamed, crying loudly.

But Cuddy wasn't having any of it. Not even dignifying her daughter's pleas, she purposefully sat Rachel down on the Persian rug in the middle of the hallway. The carpet hadn't been intended as a place of punishment when Cuddy had purchased it; though the rug didn't predate Rachel's existence (indeed, it had been bought with the intention of helping a then learning-to-walk toddler navigate her way on the traction-less hardwood in the hallway), it had certainly been put to good use.

Rachel had come to despise it, for obvious reasons, but Cuddy had always liked that she could use it as a place to put Rachel for time outs. If only because it offered the little girl absolutely _no_ entertainment whatsoever, Cuddy had found it preferable to anything else.

But as Rachel made one last ditch effort to escape, all of that was about to change.

Quickly, she got up and ran. Her blue ballet-slippered feet sliding on the hardwood floor as though she were a baby once more, she started to fall back again soon after.

This time though, it was not Cuddy or the snow that broke her fall.

Her body crashed with a loud boom into the end table that was right by the front door. The force of the collusion too much for the tiny wooden table to bear, everything on it fell to the floor. The vase of purple flowers broke, water and a few stray leaves flying everywhere. The picture frame with the photo of Rachel as a baby cooing as her mother pressed kisses into her belly was now on the floor as well, completely cracked. And then there was the decorative bowl Cuddy's father had worked painstakingly to bring back from Morocco to give to her.

_Shattered_.

What had been a beautiful dish hand painted and crafted for her was now nothing more than a collection of misshapen pieces that gave no indication of the bowl's former splendor. Gone were the smooth curves coated in yellows and purples, jagged shards taking their place. Forever ruined were the intricate hands of Fatima, which had been neatly pressed into the freshly worked clay before it had been placed in a kiln. And because of that, destroyed was the possibility of piecing the dish back together.

Even if she were to find each and every piece to the bowl, there would be no hiding the fact that it had been broken. The swirling pattern in each hand – each hand being unique – would make it impossible to hide the cracks. In other words…

The bowl was ruined.

Later on, _way_ after the fact, Cuddy would reflect on the mishap as just that – a mishap. But in the moment, she felt completely betrayed, as though Rachel had intentionally done it.

Her eyes instinctively looked toward House for some sort of support, but he was nowhere to be found. He'd completely disappeared, which meant that Cuddy had no choice but to handle this as best as she could. And in this case, that meant unceremoniously leading Rachel back to the Persian rug and setting her on it. "Don't even _think_ about moving," she said in a low, dangerous tone.

Almost instantly, Cuddy wondered if she'd gone too far. Rachel's eyes wide with fear and guilt, she started to cry, and that made Cuddy feel awful for even considering using the voice that she had.

But at the same time, she knew that Rachel needed to be punished for what she'd done earlier, and more importantly Cuddy herself needed time to cool off. So she simply walked away instead of trying to rectify the situation at that moment.

She could deal with _that_ later.

What she _wouldn't_ put off any longer was cleaning up the foyer. Grabbing a broom and dustpan, she returned to the scene of the crime. From this short distance, it was impossible to miss Rachel's sobbing coming from down the hallway. But it was equally impossible to feel all that guilty as Cuddy began to sweep up the shattered remains of her childhood.

Maybe that was too dramatic.

No, admittedly, it _was_ overly dramatic.

When her father had purchased the bowl in Morocco, she hadn't exactly been a child, and at the end of the day, it _was_ a _dish_ she hardly looked at these days anyways, so it shouldn't have mattered that Rachel had accidentally knocked it over.

But it did, and because of that, it didn't really matter that it _shouldn't_.

There was just no changing how it felt to Cuddy.

And really, why should she feel bad for being upset over something her father gave her being destroyed? Why _shouldn't_ she be angry that one of the last relics she had from a time when her father had loved her so _completely_ was now gone?

Feeling her throat thicken with emotion, Cuddy stopped asking herself questions that only seemed to accentuate her displeasure right now. Instead forcing herself to thoughtlessly clean up the mess, she was surprised by how easy it was to sweep away something that had had so much emotional weight with her.

But it was an incredibly easy task, no matter how much it hurt to have to throw the broken shards away.

As she walked back to the kitchen, the dustpan filled with broken glass and the beginnings of tears in her eyes, she resolutely ignored Rachel's sobbing plea, "Mama!"

Even if Cuddy had felt in her heart to go to her daughter, she wouldn't have. It hadn't been five minutes, which meant that Rachel was still technically in a time out.

House didn't seem to understand that though.

As Cuddy, preparing to tip the dustpan into the trash, stood over the garbage can, House strode into the kitchen with a complaint on his tongue. "You gonna shut that up?"

She didn't respond to the provocative question. Instead, she told him in a dull voice, "Roberto is taking his citizenship test this morning. When I gave him the time off, he agreed to come afterward to shovel the drive and sidewalks if it were snowing." Her gaze on the broken shards in her hands, she added, "If you can't wait that long, I'll call the boy down the street with the sign that says he'll 'rape' your leaves for ten dollars an hour and see if he'll do it."

House smirked. That sign really was the best. But he could tell that Cuddy wasn't nearly as amused as he was. "Whatever," he said dismissively. "I'm getting used to the sight of Rachel belly flopping into the snow anyway."

"Of course."

Well, that just confirmed it, he thought; she was upset. She was too listless to be anything but.

As he reached for an apple, he asked her, "You gonna tell me what's wrong?"

Finally glancing over at him, she had a nervous smile on her face. "Nothing's wrong. I'm fine – great."

"You're lying," he said knowingly, taking a bite out of the fruit in his hand.

"Then take that as a sign that I don't want to talk about it."

He took a few steps closer to her. "Since when have I done that?"

He was joking for the most part, but Cuddy didn't react one way or the other. Neither amused nor offended, she just ignored him and focused her gaze on the full dustpan in her hand. And he knew that if he couldn't even provoke a fight with her, if he couldn't even hold her attention for more than a few seconds, something was_ really_ getting to her.

Proving that point, she didn't even react to him when he moved to stand next to her and took a loud, obnoxious bite of apple.

Inwardly he scoffed in response. If she _really_ didn't want to make him curious, she was doing her best to make him _absolutely_ interested in what was going on. Truly, she couldn't have done anything else to pique his interest more.

And maybe that was the reason he took pity on her; she wasn't an opponent worthy of his machinations. She wasn't a challenge at all, and that just made him feel as though he should… cheer her up.

It was an odd feeling to be sure. He loved Cuddy – a _lot_ – but he wasn't usually in the business of making her feel better.

Okay, that sounded all wrong, but it was kind of the truth. She was a confident woman, and she didn't need him to tell her that things were okay. Even when she did want that reassurance, she took offense to the very idea of him – or _anyone_ – trying to make her feel better. And because of that, he'd learned from years of experience that "cheering her up" was the last thing she wanted in most situations.

So too had he learned how to do just that without being so overt as to make her angry.

Watching her as she dumped the contents of the dustpan in the trash, he asked her as though he were curious, "What would you do if I said I was into water sports?"

That got her attention, her head turning to look at him. One of her eyebrows raised, she asked, "Really?"

He took another bite of the apple. As he chewed, he said, "Maybe." He swallowed. "What would you do?"

Immediately Cuddy shrugged, as though it weren't even a question for her. "I'm a doctor. I do your clinic duty for you half the time, and I have a five year old who has a thirty percent chance of making it through the night dry. My _life_ is one long golden shower."

At that point he thought that if he'd had any doubts about her being upset, she would have just confirmed it.

"So," she continued, interrupting his thoughts. "If you want to add your urine to everyone else's, by all means…" She waved a hand over her body but didn't finish the thought, choosing to put away the dustpan and the broom she'd propped up against the trashcan instead.

"Good to know," he told her, his eyes roaming over her form to see if she were feeling slightly uplifted. But noticing the sadness in her face, he knew that he hadn't succeeded. So he kept talking. "You know, I like it when I find out that you're actually kinkier than I thought." Trying to bait her, he added, "I can't wait to tell Wilson."

She didn't say anything in response. In fact, she was clearly trying to leave the room.

Not that he was going to let that happen.

As she started to walk past him, he reached out and grabbed her hand. "Hey," he said softly. His touch instantly stopping her, she looked at him, the shock clear in her eyes. "Tell me."

Cuddy shook her head once. "There's nothing to tell you."

"Something's bothering you."

At first she thought about fighting him, about denying the whole thing. But she knew how House worked. Denial made him more convinced; pushing him away made him pull more. Anything she would do or say would be met with actions or words of his own to contradict and counteract, and he wouldn't stop until they were both red-faced and furious with one another. So trying to get him to simply back off by using denial seemed like a bad idea, especially if she just wanted to be left alone.

On the other hand, walking away could accomplish that. Giving him nothing to fight would frustrate him in the immediate sense, but it would certainly make him drop the subject faster than he would if she were to fight him. And since five minutes had past, Cuddy had a reason to walk away.

Smiling she told him, "I'd _love_ to stay and discuss this, but I have a time out to finish. So, feel free to concoct some elaborate conspiracy theory, but I'm not playing."

Satisfied with herself, she sauntered away, not caring that he was now clearly annoyed. And for a very brief moment, she was happy – or at least amused by the way her own frustrations had been transferred to him.

But the moment she spotted Rachel, Cuddy remembered everything that had upset her in the first place.

In that particular instant, Rachel was sitting on the floor, her legs tucked underneath her and her coat bunched beside her body. And she was sobbing, her face beet red and shoulders shaking from the effort.

Which wasn't exactly shocking these days. Since around the time Marina had died, Rachel had become increasingly upset at the idea of being punished. As though she were afraid of losing her mother because of her misdeeds, this type of overly emotional behavior wasn't surprising anymore.

Not that it wasn't heartbreaking, of course.

As angry as Cuddy had been over the bowl, it was nothing compared to the way seeing her daughter _this_ upset made her feel now.

Instantly reaching for Rachel, she picked her daughter up before she even had a chance to react to what was happening. Pulling Rachel to her chest, Cuddy murmured in a voice just loud enough to be heard over Rachel's crying, "It's okay. It's over. Mama's here."

Rachel pressed her face into Cuddy's chest, an obvious attempt to get as close to her mother as she could. Her tears staining Cuddy's dress, Rachel whimpered, "I'm sorry."

Cuddy rubbed the little girl's back. Her fingertips moving in soft circles, her nails lightly scratching every so often in the way Rachel liked, Cuddy could feel the tension in her daughter's muscles and the sweat dancing had created seeping into her outfit.

Mentally deciding that a bath was necessary, Cuddy pressed a kiss into her daughter's heated forehead. As she started to walk with Rachel in her arms towards the bathroom, she said, "I know. I know you're sorry."

But even then, even after hearing that, Rachel was still slow to calm down. In fact, it wasn't until she was sitting on the bathroom floor in Cuddy's arms that she started to relax. Whether that was due to the sound of the running bath water or the way Cuddy was rocking her, Cuddy didn't know. But no matter the reason, she was grateful.

"Come on," Cuddy told her gently. "Lets get you out of your costume, so you can get in the tub." Rachel shook her head, rubbing her runny nose against Cuddy's shoulder. "Yeah, come on," she insisted. "You'll feel a lot better after we clean you up."

Rachel was unconvinced but reluctantly pulled away nonetheless. As Cuddy helped her undress, Cuddy prompted her daughter for an explanation. "You want to tell Mommy why you attacked your classmate?"

"She stepped on my toe and kept messing up, so I kicked her."

There was such a blasé tone about her explanation that made Cuddy think that Rachel didn't see a problem in her behavior at all.

"Well, that wasn't very nice," Cuddy responded, helping Rachel into the warm water.

Rachel immediately reached for the rubber ducks on the side of the tub. Dumping them in the water, she shrugged. "She wasn't very good at dancing," she defended herself, taking a purple duck in her hands and promptly pretending to drown it. Ignoring her mother entirely, she made gurgling sounds as though the duck were gasping for air as she smashed the toy into the bottom of the tub.

"And that's a good reason to hurt her?" From the way Rachel tensed, Cuddy could tell that she was listening even though she offered no answer in response. "You know, the way I see it, if you'd just ignored her and kept dancing, no one would have even noticed that she was messing up. But by attacking her, you made everyone pay attention to that and _not_ to how beautifully you were dancing."

Naturally though Rachel only responded to the part she liked about what Cuddy was saying. "You think I did a good job?" She looked at her mother with wide, hopeful eyes.

Cuddy leaned over the lip of the tub to give her daughter a kiss on the cheek. "You were amazing, monkey. But you can't hurt other people; that's not nice… just like it's not nice when your classmates make fun of you in school." It hadn't been the easiest way to transition the conversation, but it was effective nonetheless.

Rachel let go of the duck in her hands. "I guess."

"You know you can tell me anything right? About school or anything else." Cuddy searched her daughter's face for some sort of reassurance.

Rachel nodded her head in response, but that hardly made Cuddy feel better. "Your…" She cleared her throat. "Your dance teacher says that some of the other children aren't very nice to you."

Grabbing her toy once more, she squeezed it hard and explained, "Yeah… sorta. Sometimes. But they do that and then I punches them in the face when nobody's looking."

Though Rachel smiled, Cuddy did _not_. Her daughter was basically admitting to beating up all the other children in her class; there was nothing to be happy about. "Rachel. We don't hit people." Her voice was stern, angry. "Do you understand me?"

Rachel sighed. "'Kay."

"I mean it. If I hear about you getting into any more fights, you are going to be in a _lot_ of trouble."

Rachel swallowed hard in reaction, apparently knowing that her mother meant business. "Okay."

"Good girl."

But that wasn't the end of the conversation. Rachel's face solemn, she changed the subject. "Are you mad that I breaked your stuff?"

There was only one way to answer the question.

"No," Cuddy said. "Of course not. I know it was accident."

But just because there was only one answer available didn't mean that it sounded convincing coming from her mouth. Without a doubt, there was no sense of persuasion in her voice; _no one_ would have believed her, and just a glance at Rachel told Cuddy that she didn't. Her daughter looked too sad to believe what she was being told.

"Rachel… I'm sad that those things are broken, but I'm not mad."

And that was as close to the truth as she could get. Really, Cuddy wasn't _angry_ with Rachel; there had been no malice, no intention to break any of those things, and Cuddy knew that. But she was upset – not _at_ anyone necessarily but by what had happened.

Unfortunately, Rachel didn't seem to get the difference. And though Cuddy continued to tell her that she didn't blame her through out the bath, it didn't seem to make Rachel feel any less guilty.

As Cuddy pulled Rachel out of the tub, Cuddy made one last attempt. Wrapping her daughter in a towel that made Rachel look like a giant frog, Cuddy told her, "I'm really not angry with you. All right?"

Rachel nodded her head. It might have been unconvincing, of course, but it was still a nod nevertheless. And Cuddy, not really wanting to have to say the words any more, was grateful when Rachel instead asked, "Will you dry my hair?"

"Please?"

"_Please_," Rachel said in a way that sounded as though asking politely was an incredible hassle for her.

"All right."

In the end though, drying Rachel's long hair was no small task. Her hair wasn't particularly thick, but the way she kept tiredly squirming in Cuddy's lap made it hard to get every last strand dry. And though she _said_, "Stop moving or I'm going to accidentally hit you with the dryer," Rachel paid no heed… and proceeded to do just that.

As she shifted on her mother's lap, she smacked her forehead into the dryer harshly and immediately began to cry. She wasn't hurt, thankfully, but by the time Cuddy managed to calm Rachel down, the little girl was more than a little exhausted. And the second Cuddy put her down for a nap, she was asleep.

And frankly, by the time that happened, Cuddy herself wanted a nap. Starting with her early morning wake up call to the upcoming investigation looming over her professional career to House hurting Rachel to Rachel hurting that stupid bird to everything else – it had been too much to handle, and Cuddy was simply emotionally _exhausted_.

But, crawling into the unmade bed, she quickly realized that if sleep were what she wanted, it would be the last thing she got. House barging into the room moments after she'd entered it ensured as much.

Rolling onto her side so that her back was turned to him, she muttered, "Not right now." So naturally he just came closer, crawling on the bed next to her. Sighing, she demanded, "What?"

A warm hand pressed itself to her hip, his body spooning against hers. His breath hot on the back of her neck, he asked her, "Are you really going to make me guess?"

She rolled her eyes, though he couldn't see it. "I have no idea, nor do I want to know, what you're talking about."

"So I guess that's a yes," he mumbled to himself. "All right. Lets try this: the broken glass in the trashcan used to be something important to you, and since you're being secretive and a little insane –"

"I'm not crazy for wanting my things to remain in whole pieces," she interrupted angrily.

He didn't say anything right away, an indication that he was clearly thinking. But then he said, "Hmm. You're _really_ upset. That can only mean that your _father_ gave you whatever the hell broke, and your daddy issues are rearing their ugly head again."

"I don't have daddy issues." She frowned.

"Good," he told her earnestly. He didn't believe her for a second, but he would have liked it if it were the truth. "Because no amount of hand wringing or neuroses is going to change the fact that he died pissed off at you."

Rolling over on the bed angrily so she could face him, she snarled, "Well thank you so much, you son of a bitch, for being _so_ kind in explaining to me how this works."

"I'm not trying to be cruel," he said cautiously as he rubbed a hand along her back.

"No, you're just being an ass as usual." He opened his mouth to respond, but she was too quick for him. "And _what_ is wrong with wanting to keep the things that he _gave _me when he was –"

"What?" he demanded to know. "When he was unconditionally loving? Because I'm pretty sure that never happened."

She shook her head in disbelief. It never failed to amaze her how insensitive he could be, and it never failed to feel like stupidity on her part for continuing to have a relationship with him.

"I cannot believe you," she snapped, feeling bile rise in the back of her throat. Her hands shook with anger. "I cannot believe that you would –"

"All I'm saying," he said loudly so that she would hear him over her own words. "All I'm saying is that things don't change, because you keep some stupid knickknack you probably haven't paid attention to in years. You don't need _that_ to remember him or to love him."

Knowing that it would pain her to add the next part, he was quieter when he told her, "You think you do, because he never made you think that you alone as you were was enough."

She bristled. Where the hell did he get off anyway?

"Well, thank you _so much_ for the psychoanalysis," she said with a sneer. "I know that when I came in here and told you 'not right now,' I was _really_ hoping for you to –"

"I'm not attacking you," he said with an honesty that didn't stop her from pulling away and sitting up. Her dark curls twisting in odd directions, her eyes just as wild, everything about her screamed that he needed to get to the point as soon as possible. "You didn't do anything wrong. If you're worried about your father's dead spirit being angry…"

He tried not to sound too sarcastic uttering those words, but it was hard to act like there was a serious possibility of her dad's soul roaming around the world. And in the end, when he couldn't be sure he succeeded, he simply continued to talk. "Don't be. He was an idiot when you were a kid. He was a moron when you were an adult."

At least _that_ he could say convincingly.

"You don't have anything to apologize for."

"Well thank you for the pep talk," she said bitterly, clearly not appreciating the effort he was trying to make.

He sighed and rolled onto his back. He loved Cuddy, but this was precisely the problem with her; no matter how much she _wanted_ someone to comfort her, to tell her that she hadn't done anything wrong, she always refused in the end to accept it. It didn't matter how he approached it or how subtle he tried to be; he would never succeed in making her feel better.

And knowing that, House capitulated. "Fine." He waved her away. "Proceed to mope."

But oddly enough that had the _opposite_ effect on her.

Exhaling loudly, she ran a hand through her messy hair. "No," she said, the lines on her face contracting together as she cringed. Moving back up the bed, she lay her head down on House's chest and admitted, "I'm being crazy."

"A little bit. Yeah."

She groaned in shame, pressing her face briefly into his shirt. "I'm sorry. You're being nice, and –"

"I know," he interrupted, not wanting or needing to hear any more of an apology. "Freaky, isn't it?"

"I don't know how to react."

Putting one hand underneath his head, House said, "Guess I won't do that anymore, since it confuses you so much. From now on," he declared in false proclamation. "I'm just gonna treat you like crap." Thinking about it for a second, he added, "I'm going to take up wife beating. You'll love it."

The smile he got was a small one at best. Devoid of any real joy, it wasn't surprising that she followed it up with an even more depressed, "Why not? Every other demon from Hell has come out to torment me today."

He pressed his chin to his chest so he could look down at her even more. "If the damn thing means that much to you, I'll glue it back together," he offered. He could too, having done it six months ago when he'd accidentally broken it during a rousing game of beer pong with Wilson and a patient's father whom House had suspected of cheating.

But she shook her head. "It's not that." Quickly she rectified that statement. "I mean it's not _just _that."

House didn't say anything in response, and she knew that he was trying to prompt her to spill it all.

Truth be told though, that was the last thing she wanted to do. As much as part of her would have _liked_ to confide him, the rest of her felt that, as an adult, she shouldn't need someone to make her feel better about her life. She shouldn't _need_ to burden someone else with her problems.

But then again, he'd agreed to celebrate Purim tomorrow night with a bunch of the hospital's board and major donors, which meant that at least _that_ problem would soon be his as well.

Sighing, she told him, "Well, you'll find this out anyway. Roberts in the pharmacy has been working with David Howard in a drug ring. Apparently, Howard's millions of dollars aren't so much the result of an inheritance and successful business as it is the product of selling meth and who knows what else to a bunch of strung out sixteen year olds."

House nodded his head in understanding. "I'm guessing that means the five million dollars you were practically orgasming all over last week aren't yours anymore."

"Yeah. And tomorrow we're having dinner with –"

"Oh that's going to be fun," he said dryly. "I guess I should have as much sex with you as I can now since you're going to be on your knees all night tomorrow until you have lock jaw blowing every board member –"

"Thanks for the support."

She started to sit up, but he stopped her, an arm strategically wrapping around her waist to keep her where she was. "Don't," he told her in a regretful tone.

"They're going to fire me," she confessed. "I don't need you to –"

"They're not going to fire you."

He seemed so sure that she wished that that feeling could be contagious and rub off on her. But as it was, his confidence stayed with him, and she was left with the same amount of unease as she'd started the conversation with. And he must have sensed that, because he continued, "You're not going to be fired. As pissed off as they're going to be, the board knows what you're worth… what you do for the hospital.

"There's going to be an investigation." She shook her head a little. "It's going to cost time and money and –"

"And you've suddenly lost your ability to handle any of that," he finished for her doubtfully. "You got where you were by wearing open-tip bras and white t-shirts on the days they were handing out promotions." She smiled a little, and he took her brief silence to add, "Which you should do, by the way."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Please do. I don't get to see your breasts nearly enough."

Her smile widened. "You see them nearly every day. What more could you possibly want?"

"Right now?" he asked. "Oral sex."

She sat up and eyed him suspiciously. "Did you ransack your private stash of Viagra… _again_?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, you agreed that I get to fuck you anytime I want this weekend, and I plan on making the most of that," he told her honestly. His heated gaze focused on her, he added, "And I'm starting right now."

"But –"

"As of right now, your pussy is mine, and I want a taste. So, on your back and spread your legs," he ordered sternly. She needed something to distract her, and since sex was the easiest way of accomplishing that, he wasn't going to take no for an answer, unless she _really_ insisted.

Cuddy didn't move though. When he'd said oral sex, she hadn't anticipated being the receiver. And to be honest, she wasn't sure she wanted to be. Although she felt a little better about her ability to wade through the mess at work, she was _not_ all that interested in sex right now. In fact, it was the last thing on her mind. But if she were going to have sex anyway, it would have been better from her point of view to be the one on her knees; at least then she wouldn't have to pretend to enjoy it.

"House," she said with a sigh. "I…" Shaking her head, she threw her hands in the air. "Fine." As she did what he'd just instructed, she warned him, "But I doubt you're going to get me off."

"I like a challenge" was all he said in response.

As he parted her thighs with one of his hands, he could see that her panties were damp. The crotch of her underwear was darker than the rest of the fabric and practically glued to her skin. And even from this distance, he could see, thanks to the clingy material, the outline of her pussy.

Pressing a kiss to her knee, House was prepared to call her a liar. But as he slowly, torturously slid her underwear off of her body, he realized that she wasn't really turned on now; if she were wet at all, it was from the sex they'd had in the bathroom, the majority of the fluid smeared in her panties and along her pussy his own semen.

He shook his head in mock dismay. "Naughty girl. Can't even keep my cum inside you. I should shove your vibrator in you when I'm not _using_ you to keep you nice and full of my semen like I like you."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, you do that."

House tossed her underwear at her. The second she caught the damp material in her hands, he ordered, "Lick it. _Now_."

Smirking, she unraveled the crumpled up piece of clothing so she could see the fabric that had made sitting through Rachel's recital not entirely comfortable. Her gaze focused completely on House, she made a show of it. Her tongue darting out to lick what little bit of his semen was left off her underwear, she took her time. Slowly laving the fabric, she moaned (for his amusement of course) as she tasted the familiar, slightly salty and bitter liquid that was him.

There really wasn't much to clean up, but she was willing to pretend as though it had been a satisfying experience for her. "So good," she purred.

"You're toying with me," he chastised, running a nail down the length of her perineum. And _that_, although she hadn't wanted to have any sort of sex, began to make her feel that pull inside of her body.

Tossing her underwear to the side, she said, "I'm sorry."

"Liar." But nevertheless, he leaned down and began to press wet kisses to her inner thighs. His stubble scraping her soft flesh, he told her quietly, "But behave and I'll make you come on my tongue."

He didn't need to look at her to know that she was consenting. Her legs parting even more to allow him to get closer was proof enough that she wanted him to do precisely what he was doing. And that made him smile. The feel of the muscles in her thighs contracting with anticipation pleased him too much to pretend he was anything other than happy by her acquiescence.

Lazily, he slid the hand already between her lips upward. His middle finger just grazed her hole, but it was enough to make her gasp. She still wasn't all that wet, but she would get there. Of that he had no doubts.

His mouth making its way to her bare mound, she felt her juices begin to flow when he kissed her there. He wasn't touching her clit or anything like that, but that didn't matter. The tenderness of the act was a reminder of just how much he did love her. His blue eyes momentarily glancing upward to meet her gaze, no words were spoken on his part.

He didn't need to. He was clearly asking for permission, and with a nod of her head, he got it.

Her focus solely on what his mouth was doing, she barely noticed the way her bra suddenly seemed too tight for her to breathe or the way her dress seemed too warm for her heated flesh. In fact, it was all she could do to blink as House licked in one languid stroke his way down to her sex.

His knuckles stroked her outer labia. His tongue laved over her clit once, and when she bucked her hips lightly in response, he told her, "That's my good girl. Getting your pussy all wet for me, even when you didn't really want to."

He licked the entire length of her pussy. His breath feeling so hot, she felt as though her body was on fire, as though what little moisture he was leaving behind in his tongue's wake was being replicated exponentially by her own body. "Yes," she breathed out in pleasure.

"Such an obedient little cunt," he cooed, his tone of voice erasing the sting of the slur. Loudly he inhaled, the air around him pleasantly perfumed by the smell of her sweat, her sex, and the sex they'd had earlier.

Slowly he slipped a finger inside of her. Her internal muscles were warm, her juices flowing freely as though he'd never had to convince her to have sex. "Tell me you want this," he told her.

"I want this," she replied immediately, without shame or hesitation. Whatever reluctance she felt in the other areas of their lives was completely absent now, because she added quickly, emphatically, "I want _you_."

He rewarded her with another finger. Slowly pumping her, he swept his tongue across her swollen clit. Again, her hips bounced in response. Immediately he pulled his fingers, now lightly coated in her cream, from her. Using his hand to warningly tap the exposed sliver of bottom, he told her, "Don't move."

"But –"

He cut her off with a harsher slap. "No more talking."

She didn't want to obey, but knowing that he wasn't above withholding orgasms from her, she knew she had to. Sighing, she braced herself for his ministrations. Pressing her ass as firmly against the bed as she could, she was determined _not_ to displease him.

"_Very_ good," House rewarded, kissing her mound once more. His mouth lazily wandering toward her weeping hole, she managed to stay still until he straightened out his tongue and pressed it to her opening.

As he penetrated her, she couldn't stop her body from reacting by jerking. It just felt too good, maddeningly so. An apologetic sound escaped her as she broke the rule he had set for her.

And for a brief moment, she was terrified that he would pull out from her.

But instead, he began to move his tongue in and out of her, setting a pace that would quickly, _easily_ bring her now more than eager body to climax.

Of course, that didn't mean he was happy. One of his hands cupping part of her bottom, his thumb running over, though not penetrating, her smaller hole, his other hand punished her by delivering a sharp blow to her mound.

She gasped in pain and pleasure. Part of the spanking hitting her clit, it was all she could do to stop herself from shouting "Yes" loudly.

Her body hot and sweating, her worried mind easing into a haze of pleasure, she keened when he began to massage her clit insistently. And there was no stopping the climax that seized her at that moment. His hands and mouth forcing her over the edge, she practically wailed as he lapped up her juices.

His stubble rubbing warmly against her delicate flesh, she felt that heat spread exponentially through her body. The fire inside of her consuming her totally, she came. Loudly, wantonly, without any regard for anyone or anything other than herself, she felt her entire body spill over the cliff.

Her pussy contracting around his tongue, he continued to fuck her, drawing out every last bit of pleasure from her.

It was the least he could do, given how undeniably stressed she was.

Given how he was going to need to fuck her mouth as hard as he could now, thanks to the show she'd just given him.

Her juices still coating his tongue, when he finally pulled away, he did not miss the dazed smile on her face.

A grin of his own impossible for her to ignore, he said happily, "Okay, my turn."

_To be continued_


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Notes: I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to update. Between traveling and getting sick, I just didn't have time to write for a while there. But thank you to tuckp3, Huddyphoric, huddyholic, lin12344, weezy, Temo, Josam, red blood, DoctorLisaCuddy, wrytingtyme, scullyschik, HouseBroken, Sydney, Jane Q. Doe, paroulis21, MissBates, and lhoma320 for reading and reviewing. I can't believe the amount of love you've all given this fic. Thank you.

_Disclaimer: I own cold medicine, not House. _

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Seven: Reciprocated**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

"If you wanted me to blow you, all you had to do was say that," Cuddy told him with a roll of her eyes. "I definitely didn't need you to go down on –"

"You make it sound like I was trying to convince you to have sex with me," he interrupted. "Per our previous agreement," House said slowly, cupping her moist sex roughly with one of his hands. "I get this any time I want it this weekend."

He wasn't hurting her, but she squirmed anyway under his grip. "You're disgusting," she seethed.

"And you have surprisingly low standards."

The scowl on her face was impossible to miss, and he knew that if he wanted to get laid (or get laid without the experience ending with her teeth meeting his dick), he needed to move on. "All right, look, the point is I munched the carpet, not that there's any carpet to munch I guess, because I wanted to." She opened her mouth to speak, but he quickly added, "And because you needed it."

She shook her head. "I didn't _need_ –"

"You did. You needed to relax," he insisted. "I provided that." With a shrug, he continued, "And if, in the process of doing that, I got a little turned on myself, I don't think it's wrong to –"

"I didn't say it was wrong."

That hadn't been her point at all. She definitely was _not_ opposed to having oral sex. If anything, she'd been trying to say she would have done what he was now requesting anyway, even without the favor being reciprocated. But naturally, being a genius without any common sense, he didn't understand that.

At all.

Propping herself up on her elbows, she sighed. "I was just trying to point out that, agreement or not, whether you went down on me or not, I would have 'given you a turn,' as you so eloquently put it."

"Obviously," House said easily with a pat to her knee. "You rejecting me in bed would be like peanut butter rejecting the jelly."

She glared at him. "If you're trying to get me to say no, let me tell you now: you don't need to make such an effort."

He scoffed at the very idea. "Why the hell would I do that?"

"Who knows? But I would exercise caution from here on out," she warned in a low voice. "Unless you want me to follow your lead and put _my_ mouth to poor –"

"Don't need a demonstration. Thanks."

"Then I suggest you do something _other_ than imply that I'm your personal _whore_ –"

"That's _not_ what I was saying," he insisted immediately, his eyes wide with dismay. Where the hell did she get this stuff?

"Good. Because you should know that if I never tell you no in here, it's because I _want_ to do what you're suggesting. Not because I feel _obligated_ to –"

"Then _you_ should know that I'm not any different," House shot back.

"Fine." She practically snarled the word out, her arms folded across her chest.

"Fine."

At that point, he wasn't even sure why they were fighting or how the damn fight had started. But either way, at that moment, he was angry.

No.

_Livid_ – he was _livid_.

She just couldn't make things easy.

And he was about to tell her that, but she beat him to the punch. "You just have to make things difficult," she accused.

"_Me_? Who's the one misdirecting her frustration?" Before she could even answer the question, he pointed out, "And in case the possessive pronoun didn't provide enough of a hint, for the record, the answer to that question is _you_."

"Maybe," she admitted. Jutting her chin out, she added, "But I'm not the one uttering backhanded compliments and thinly veiled insults every chance he gets, because he's too much of an _ass_ to master the most basic aspects of conversation. And in case the pronouns aren't enough, I'm talking about _you_," she mocked.

Instantly he fell silent. There was no point in trying to deny what she was saying. After all, she was hardly wrong about him. Though he wasn't intentionally trying to bait her, he could see that he was doing just that. He might have been saying what he meant, but at the same time, House knew it was hardly what he _should_ have been saying. And though just minutes ago, he'd been doing a somewhat acceptable job at keeping Cuddy happy, her mind finally on things other than work, now he was clearly fumbling.

No, he instantly corrected. He was beyond fumbling.

He was making things worse.

And there was use in denying it.

So he simply nodded his head. A somber gesture to be sure, it was something he hoped would be enough to soothe any wounds he had caused.

And in the end, it must have been, because after one long tense moment, Cuddy offered, "Call it a draw?"

"Sure," he responded breezily; he was more than willing to accept a tie in this ill-conceived argument.

Frankly, he'd anticipated being blamed for the whole thing, and the fact that she was willing to take responsibility (even wordlessly) _at all_ was something he was not only willing to accept but reciprocate as well.

But then it also made him feel compelled to tell her, "I wasn't trying to –"

"I know," she said hastily. She didn't need him to explain any further. "We're just not good at _not_ fighting."

It was hardly a nice explanation, but it _was_ the best one she had.

As House laid his head on her lap, his faced pressing into her bunched dress, he seemed willing to agree with her theory. "It's what we know best…. All those years of working together…"

"Probably."

"Just think – if you'd taken your clothes off a lot sooner, we'd probably have gotten along better this whole time."

She raised an eyebrow in response. "We had sex nearly the first time we met. Didn't make a difference."

House amended his statement. "I mean if we'd kept having sex_ after_."

"We'd be miserable," Cuddy said immediately. "Can you imagine the number of opportunities our parents would have had to pester us about getting married?"

He shrugged. "I don't have to listen to what your mother tells you, and mine has long accepted that we're not getting married."

Cuddy ran a hand through his hair. "How did you manage to do that? Don't tell me she fell for the whole 'Oh, I would _love_ to marry Lisa, but she's _already_ married, and I'm just her rent boy' excuse."

"Nope." He would have tried that, except his mother knew when he lied, and there seemed no point in wasting time to try and convince her of something she would never buy. "I simply told her I would marry you when zombies –"

"I don't know," she interrupted slowly, "if I should be offended that you basically told your mother you would _never_ marry me, irritated that you would assume that, in the event of a _zombie_ apocalypse, I would want to waste my time stating the obvious – that I'm _doomed_ to be with you forever – or disgusted with myself for dating someone who has the mentality of a thirteen year old boy."

Cuddy was clearly unimpressed by what he had said, but at the same time, her voice contained a certain amount of _false_ irritation. He knew that meant that she might have been annoyed but not to the degree with which she was speaking.

Lifting his head off of her lap, he slowly crawled up the bed. And as he did so, he explained, "First of all, you're looking at this the wrong way. I told my mother I _would_ marry –"

"If there were_ zombies_," she snapped.

He rolled his eyes. "Look past the half-eaten brains. All I was telling her was what she needed to hear: that there were circumstances where I would marry you."

But even to his own ears, he sounded as though what he was really saying was, "I'll marry you when there's a gun to my head."

And that wasn't going to go over well.

He stopped in his tracks, his body hovering over hers, and waited for her inevitable response.

"Oh, I'm _so_ honored. But before you pick out your dress, _honey_, you should ask yourself if there are any circumstances within _your_ circumstances where I would say yes."

The way she was talking made it sound like she would never say yes, but that didn't stop him from smirking. "You'd say yes. And," he added brightly. "If there were zombies, you'd _have_ to say yes; sluts always die in horror –"

"I'm not a slut!"

"No," House agreed immediately, noting that her indignation was at a level where she would be tempted to knee him in the nuts. "But horror movies rarely make the distinction between whores and women who happen to enjoy having sex with their boyfriends, which means that this might be the one time where the answer to the age old question, 'Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free,' is it's a matter of life and death."

She shook her head. "Doesn't matter. I'd still take my chances."

But he wasn't buying it.

Snaking his way up the rest of the bed, he stopped once his mouth was hovering over hers. His eyes trained on her questioning gaze, he told her, "You're lying."

"I am _not_."

He scoffed. "You'd marry me right now if I asked you."

"Really." She sounded doubtful of that fact as she shifted her body underneath his. Her legs spreading a bit more to accommodate him, he sagged gratefully on top of her.

"Really," he told her, propping himself on his elbows so he wouldn't suffocate her.

Cuddy shook her head. "If you asked me right now, I would say no."

"No, you wouldn't."

"_Yes_, I would. But if you don't believe me," she said casually. "Ask me."

"No."

"Go on. Ask me to marry you. See what I say."

Her eyes looked… steely from his prospective, her gaze so resolute that there was no missing the challenge she was laying out for him.

Of course, that in and of itself was something for him to be suspicious of. Although it was possible she wanted him to ask to say no, there was also the possibility that she wanted him to ask so she could say _yes_.

And he did _not_ want that – an _engagement_ – to happen. He loved Cuddy, but he didn't want to get married. He didn't want things to change, and getting married would inevitably do that… and not necessarily for the better. Which meant that he really did _not_ want to ask the question.

But if she was challenging him – and in his mind, there was no doubt she was – he felt as though he _had_ to ask….

_Damn it. _

It wasn't in his nature to back down.

Even if asking meant undesirable results, it was something he now felt compelled to do.

"Fine," he replied bitterly. "Marry me, Cuddy."

Her answer was instantaneous.

Not even giving him enough time to regret the question or feel the suspense from asking build, she said without an iota of emotion, "No."

"'No'?"

It might have been what he wanted to hear, but the word sounded odd coming out of his mouth nonetheless.

"That's right," she said in a voice low enough that she almost sounded hoarse. One of her hands lightly running along one of his biceps, she arched her back as best as she could to kiss him.

Doing that under his weight was naturally _not_ an easy task. But she managed to get there by craning her neck as best as she could. Her mouth finally on his, she offered him a chaste kiss that was meant to do nothing more than soothe him over her rejection.

Oh, she knew that he _definitely_ didn't _want_ her to say yes. He wasn't upset, because he'd actually wanted to marry her. She knew that much. But she also knew that… in his twisted mind, her words would come to mean a myriad of untrue, unkind things.

The specifics of that she did not want to know. Her own mind could paint her words in broad enough strokes to give her an idea of what he must have been thinking. And not wanting to give either one of their brains enough time to imagine any sort of slight, she explained, her eyes looking directly into his, "This is the way things are supposed to be between you and me."

Stroking the apple of his cheek with her knuckles, she told him, "I don't want things to be different. You're not the only one who doesn't want things to change."

He cocked his head to the side. "If you didn't want things to change, you wouldn't be pushing me into Daddy Warbucks territory."

"All right," she conceded. "I want _some_ things to change. But… the way we are together…" Her voice trailed off into a loud groan. Why did it seem like he was intentionally making things more difficult?

No longer feeling particularly kind, Cuddy said harshly, "The point is we're _happy_ – no matter how much evidence there is to the contrary. And the things we hate about each other, the things we want to change? No piece of paper will make that happen any sooner than the terms of your contract have made you perform your clinic hours."

He rolled his eyes. "Only you would think that it's a good time to bring up the _clinic_ when a man is between your thighs."

"Only you would still believe that I'm in this simply for the free milk," she told him pointedly.

And hearing those words come out of her mouth, he suddenly wondered what had made him even doubt her in the first place. There was no way she was lying now, and listening to what she was saying only felt like a confirmation of something he already knew. It _was_ confirmation of something he already knew.

Cuddy did not view him as a casual lover, someone for her to use and discard at her leisure. She put up with too much. Nor did she view him as a mere asset to the hospital, someone who she valued as a commodity and nothing else. She put _out_ too much for that. She did not hate him, nor was she the sort to remain indifferent to him.

In fact, there was only one possibility, one explanation for her behavior: she loved him. Perhaps she did stupidly so, but she did nonetheless, and no matter how little they told one another, no matter how much they preferred to express that emotion in subtext (if they expressed it at all), there was no denying her love for him.

It was simply a truth he felt too deeply to ignore.

So why had he forgotten that fact? Why had he felt, if only for a brief moment, that her not wanting to marry him meant something sinister?

He was aware that contemplating those questions while he lie on top of Cuddy was awkward, to say the least. But his mind didn't really care about that as much as it cared about getting an answer.

Unfortunately for him, the only answer he could come up with was one he didn't like. This was particularly upsetting, because he knew that he was being completely logical in his thinking; if he knew that she loved him, if he knew that marriage was not at _all_ what he wanted, then the only reason he should need confirmation of her love was because he _wanted_ to hear her say it.

Not unlike when a wife asked her husband if the dress made her look fat, House had put himself in this position _not_ in response to a challenge but because he wanted to hear her say something he already knew.

And _that_, as pathetic as it was, would have made him groan out loud… if not for the fact that he was on top of Cuddy now and didn't want to share how lame his mental processes _apparently_ were.

But she must have sensed that something was wrong anyway, because she asked in concern then, "House?"

He blinked, his name slowly registering in his mind. For a brief second, he knew it seemed that he was upset – at least to his worry-prone girlfriend – but luckily his wit, ever at his disposal, saved him.

"Sorry. I was just thinking how awkward that is, seeing as how I _am_ in it for the milk." For good measure, he squeezed one of her breasts.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "I'm sure."

"You don't believe me?"

"Not at all." When he scoffed, she reminded him, "You just proposed."

"You _made_ me. _And_ technically, as far as my personal feelings go, I told you that I would only marry you when there were zombies involved."

"Doesn't matter," she said smugly. "You still proposed. _And_ if you agreed to marry me under _any_ circumstances, that must mean you really do love me."

"A feeling that's definitely being diminished the longer you talk."

He was more irritated than truthful at that moment. But she ignored him anyway, so the words he'd uttered perhaps in warning meant nothing.

"I'm sure," she told him doubtfully.

In reaction he shrugged. "Well, I guess we'll never know either way how I feel... since the scenario in which I have to express my _undying_ devotion to you will never happen."

Equal parts sarcasm, smugness, and mock lamentation, his response would have probably troubled anyone else. Yet Cuddy was undeterred.

Cocking her head to the side, she said, " I guess… unless you define zombies as being thoughtless, drooling people in want of a brain, who… I don't know – walk about slowly and –"

"Ooh, sorry," he told her, shaking his head. He could see what she was trying to get at, and he wasn't having any of it. "Your sister in her Klonopin haze at Thanksgiving doesn't count."

"Damn."

"Thanks for playing," he told her with a smile.

And for reasons she didn't really understand, she smiled as well.

In all honesty, she shouldn't have. The memory of the most recent Thanksgiving usually made her angry.

Julia had been prescribed clonazepam to help her deal with the five products of an overly fruitful womb and the stay-at-home husband who resented her for being better at her job than he had been at his. And considering Cuddy herself knew how suffocating life could be at times, she understood why Julia would need something to help her deal with her anxiety.

Unfortunately, the pills had had the side effect of making her a drowsy mess incapable of taking care of her children or placating her husband. And as a result, all of that responsibility had been transferred to Cuddy herself. As House had told her that day (before he'd abandoned her unapologetically to go get drunk at a bar), it was easy to be stress-free when someone else was carrying the weight of your stressors.

In other words, Thanksgiving had been ruined, and the memory of it should have – and normally did – upset her. But at the moment, she seemed to be immune to the frustration she'd felt then. In fact the only thing she seemed to be feeling at all in this moment was an overwhelming affection for House that made everything else that had happened that day and today seem so unimportant and miniscule.

And she wasn't going to let that feeling go without a fight.

Her smile widening, House must have sensed that something was off with her, because he asked her then, suspicion laced in every tone, "Are you having a stroke?"

"No," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as she went in for another kiss.

He was clearly ready for her this time, his lips parted in anticipation. Usually this meant he would give her a kiss so passionate, so forceful that it would literally take her breath away. As though he had something to prove, his lips would descend on hers and refuse to let go until he had made some point she didn't understand.

This though wasn't like that.

He was eager to receive her but tentative… no, _softer_ with his own actions. At first she thought he might be confused (a state so rare for him that, when such moments did occur, she was simply confounded by them). But in fact, he was simply allowing her to take control. And she liked that, because, even though time didn't allow for it, she wanted to go slowly… to take her time.

Sometimes, they were so quick to move beyond a kiss that all the pleasantries of sharing one were lost to them both. And since House was a great kisser, this was in her opinion a tragedy indeed.

In those times, she missed the soft brush of his lips, the light scratch of his stubble along her chin. Right now she could feel that familiar burn creeping onto her face, and she felt herself ache for all of the times they'd brushed past all too quickly this delicious friction.

The soft rasp of his stubble something she enjoyed, it was admittedly a little odd. But she liked its roughness in contrast to her smooth skin. She liked that sandpapery sensation more than anything a fantasy could offer her in terms of kissing.

It was proof that all of this was _real_.

Of course, to some the fantasy would seem more appealing. In her own delusional mind, she had always imagined, completely unbidden, that they would be together… in _peace_. In her dreams they did not disagree. Fighting saved only for nightmares, when her mind blessed her with a fantasy of them together, all of their troubles had a tendency to melt away with the same ease her grandmother's homemade caramels had oozed under the warm rays of the sun.

Their fights something she couldn't even recall, in her fantasy, they were Greg and Lisa, two people whose and love and concern for one another radiated hotly, the landscape of their relationship in an eternal, painless spring.

And she couldn't lie and say that she _never_ wished for their relationship to be like that in real life.

Sometimes she did.

But right now, the fantasy seemed like nothing compared to the real thing: his soft lips meeting hers; his weight, heavy and warm, on top of her; his chin lightly scratching her hand as she pressed a palm to his cheek; the way his fingers snagged in her dark curls as he brushed the strands away from her face…

A delightful symphony of sensation and the hushed sounds of their breathing surrounded her, cocooned her. And the fantasy seemed _so _awful by comparison. Because it was one thing to be with someone when things were easy and something else entirely to stay with someone who very often made things difficult.

This was so much better.

Most of the time, she wasn't sure if their relationship, given its nature, made them virtuous or masochistic. But at the moment, the latter didn't fit at all.

Pleased by that knowledge, Cuddy kissed him hard. The taste of her own body still lingered with him, and that only served to make her want him more.

She flicked her tongue against his once before pulling away. A smile on her face, she lazily kissed his jaw line. She could feel the muscles underneath her lips clench and unclench. Normally that would mean he was angry or on the verge of it. But in this context, she knew it could only mean that he wanted her, that his need for her was approaching the point where his body wouldn't be able to walk away as though nothing had happened.

Luckily for him, she had no intention of letting him get away from her.

As she kissed her way down to his neck, she told him, "Rachel will be asleep a little longer…"

"Uh huh," he replied, not really listening. He didn't have many rules when it came to sex. But mentioning the R word when they were getting it on _definitely_ went against the few rules he did have.

Pulling her hair into a ponytail under his grasp he used it to force her head back. She grunted in reaction, though not in pain. He kissed her firmly on the mouth, his tongue exploring her mouth as greedily as possible. Maybe he should have been nicer about it, but he could feel the stirrings of his cock in his pants so…

Playtime was over.

Breathless she pulled away as best as she could. "I was just trying –"

"Shut up," he ordered. "It's time for you to earn your keep."

She watched him through unenthused eyes as he rolled off of her and scooted back on the bed. Once his lower back had hit the pillows, he stopped. That the side of Cuddy's head was now parallel to his hips just made it even clearer what he wanted.

Well, what he wanted but apparently wouldn't get.

Perturbed Cuddy pointed out, "I think I've more than earned my keep. Based on the amount of sex we've had in the last twenty-four hours anyway."

"Little Greg and my refractory period disagree with you." Reaching over, he grabbed her nearest hand. She didn't fight him as he pulled her arm over and placed her palm flush against the crotch of his jeans. If anything, she began to cup him of her own volition, his dick hardening a little under her touch. And he knew then that her reluctance was more for show than anything else.

Pondering over this newfound knowledge, House told himself that if it was a show she wanted…

Well who was he to disappoint?

"Now," he said sternly. "Are we going to do this the nice way or the hard way?"

She smirked. "I don't play nice."

"Thank God for that," he muttered, pushing her hand away.

Truth be told, it was times like these that made him overcome with gratitude; there was no reason why he should have the good fortune of being with someone so… in tune with his needs, but apparently he did have it. And though normally he'd want to know why that was, with Cuddy, especially _now_, he was willing to uncharacteristically go with the flow and forget the why.

Whatever kept her here was fine with him.

Eagerly House unzipped his pants. With even more speed, he pulled his jeans and underwear off. His entire body thrumming with excitement over what he was about to do, he couldn't find it in himself to go slowly. Which was why, when he straddle Cuddy's stomach, he wasn't exactly gentle.

She grunted as he settled himself on top of her. Definitely too high on her body to penetrate her vaginally or anally, he got comfortable right below her breasts. His now bare legs trapping her where she was, he told her, "Just remember when you're choking on my dick, you could have done this the easy way."

She smirked not for the last time that day. Although she reached out for him and began to lightly stroke his penis, she said cruelly, "I'm not worried about that. It's not _that_ big."

It was hard to concentrate on what she was saying. What she was _doing_ to him was nearly all he could pay attention to. Especially when she allowed one of her short nails to delicately draw a line along the underside of his cock, her finger following the path of his veins, it was hard to process the insult.

But eventually it did filter into his brain, and he was not amused. Shaking his head, he warned, "Behave or you'll end up over my knee."

The threat, however, was not met with fear – not in the least. Instead a wolfish grin on her face, she said, "I hope so."

He thrust himself into her fist once; the image of Cuddy sprawled across his lap as he reddened the pale flesh of her taut ass was too potent to ignore. But he refused to allow his voice to show how affected he was when he told her, "Careful, _dear_. I know you think teasing me is a lot of fun, but keep it up, and you'll have an ass red enough to guide Santa's sleigh."

"It's not December –"

"Stop talking," he said, cutting her off.

Shifting all of his weight off of her and onto his knees, he hovered above her. And before she could say anything, he ordered, "Get my dick a little wet for me, would you?"

Cuddy hesitated for a moment. Though this too would seem as though she were teasing him, in actuality, she was more confused than anything else. From the beginning, he'd made it seem like he wanted a blow job. But if that were true, why would he ask her to get his cock…

She didn't finish the thought.

Knowing House as well as she did, she knew that in times like these, it was better not to ask questions. Of course, in the back of her mind, she also realized that, if he had something intricate planned, there was a chance Rachel would wake up before then. And maybe Cuddy _should_ ask in order to avoid _that_ predicament.

Then again, if he didn't realize that five year olds didn't sleep forever, he deserved a case of blue balls.

However, that didn't seem like it would be an issue. Because whatever his plans were, taking things slowly did not seem to be what he had in mind.

Obviously impatient, he fisted her hair once more and drew her head painfully from the pillow underneath her.

It hurt.

There was no denying that it did. It did _not_ feel good. But the tug was bearable – not worth complaining over – if incredibly attention getting.

Her eyes, ignoring the dick in her face, sought out his own gaze. The second she found it, she could see that he was not pleased.

"If you thought that sounded optional, let me tell you it's _not_," he snarled.

"I wasn't –"

Letting go of her hair, he told her, "I really don't care."

Cuddy considered fighting him on that but didn't really feel like it. God help her, but she actually tended to like it _more_ when he was rough and demanding with her.

In bed anyway.

Outside of sex, she wasn't a fan; in fact, she would have been appalled at anyone treating her like this in any other situation. But inside the bedroom, his behavior didn't bother her. His abrasiveness annoyed her, yes, but here… she got some sort of sick enjoyment from it. And though she probably should have seen a psychiatrist about that, instead, she decided to give House what he wanted.

Sitting up as best as she could (which wasn't very much, her shoulder blades still on the bed), she stroked his length a few more times. Thanks to all the sex they'd had today, it was taking him a little longer to get as hard as she knew he could be. But his burgeoning erection was showing promise.

And besides, she liked a challenge anyway.

Licking her lips, she slowly inched her head toward the head of his penis. The effect of which was House making a noise best described as a plaintive whine; clearly, he wanted her to hurry up. Secretly, she was pleased by this knowledge, by the fact that she was getting to him. He deserved to be driven crazy.

And that wouldn't be hard to accomplish.

From this position, she couldn't actually wrap her mouth around his entire length. Physically it just wasn't going to be possible, unless she wanted to completely throw him off her body. So she didn't even try to deep throat him. More than likely, he'd want that eventually, but she wasn't going to do that now. Besides, he'd only asked her to get him wet, so who knew what he had in mind?

As she moved her fist down to the root of his prick, her hand flush with his body, she thought she didn't want to know what he had planned.

Sloppily she pressed a wet kiss to the side of his penis. It would have been an awful kiss to receive on the mouth, but here, in this context, he would enjoy it. And it was impossible to miss that he _did_.

He tried to suppress a moan, but he was sure that he'd failed. Because just the feel of her moist lips against his heated flesh was enough to make the blood in his body rush south.

Honestly, it was amazing how good she could make him feel by doing so little. At the moment, she was offering wet kisses along the parts of his cock she could reach. Her mouth peppered kisses in slow succession, her tongue darting out every so often to lick him. Her hand leisurely pumped him, her palm spreading her saliva from root to tip.

It wasn't much, but it felt _so_ good, he thought, willing himself _not_ to tell her that (she worked harder when he didn't give her the feedback necessary to make her smug).

Glancing down at her, House hoped to see her eyes looking back at him. But she wasn't looking at him at all; her long hair falling around her face obscured his vision of her and of what she was doing to him.

That was okay, he told himself. He liked not being able to see what she was going to next. He liked not knowing beforehand when she was going to move her hand downward to cup his balls. He liked being surprised as to where she would kiss or lick him next. He _liked_ not being able to see what she doing but all the while knowing she was doing it.

To him.

_For_ him.

But when she was so kind as to noisily suck the head of his cock into her mouth, he _had_ to see that.

Gently (he figured he should be nice while she literally had him by the balls) he threaded his fingers through her dark locks. Her curls tangled around his hand, he pushed her hair back to watch what she was doing.

But in doing so, he couldn't help but grunt an encouraging "Yeah" for her.

He hadn't meant to, but seeing her lips around his cock while at the same time _feeling_ her tongue bob against the underside of his cock and the rest of her mouth suck at him was too much for him to handle.

Offering him one last swipe of her tongue, she pulled away in a predictably smug manner. Which would have annoyed him if the sight of her lips swollen and wet with desire for him hadn't made him feel equally smug.

But if she'd thought that any of this would make him grateful, he was prepared to prove her wrong.

Plopping back down on her upper abdomen, he asked her condescendingly, "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

She glared at him. "Try not to break my ribs, will you?"

He didn't respond. Instead, he clutched the neckline of her dress and shoved it downwards. The thick material had some stretch to it, which meant that the article of clothing threatened to spring back to its rightful place. Luckily though, Cuddy's breasts provided enough of a roadblock.

As she lay back on the bed, House shook his head in disappointment. "_That's_ the bra you're wearing?"

Defensively, she looked at her chest.

Sure, it wasn't the best bra she owned. Neither a demi nor a push up nor open-tipped, it hardly ranked on his scale of bra sexiness anyway. But it more than got the job done. "There's nothing wrong with my bra."

He couldn't deny that there was nothing _wrong_ with it. In fact, for his purposes, the front closure was probably a _good_ thing. But by the same token… it wasn't the exciting push up bra he'd envisioned.

"You could have at least put on –"

"Since you were _there_, I don't think I need to remind you how long I've been up. And since you've witnessed it, I don't think I need to remind you how awful and _busy_ my day has been," she pointed out in irritation. "So if you think even for a second that I'm going to _apologize_ for picking the first bra I could find while _you_ sit there in a t-shirt and _socks_ –"

"Oh _stop_," he interrupted. "You're taking this the wrong –"

"And how _am_ I supposed to take that?"

House tried to articulate what he meant, but secretly he knew that there was nothing he could say to make this better. Cursing the light blue and navy floral-patterned lingerie that had created this whole mess, House told her, "I just wasn't expecting something that looks so… virginal and… _sweet_." The words felt odd coming from his mouth, which just proved to him just how wrong the bra had been for her to begin with.

"Why?"

He sighed. "I don't know."

"You have a reason."

"I really don't."

"Of course, you do," she insisted. "You're an _idiot_, but you don't do things without reason."

"I've changed."

She glared at him as though she wondered why he'd even tried to get that line past her. "No, you haven't. But since you won't _tell_ me, I guess I'll –"

"I just don't associate you with being virginal and sweet," he offered foolishly. In his head, right before he'd said it, he'd thought that whatever reason she would have attributed to his behavior would be worse than anything he could say.

He was wrong.

"Oh?" She scoffed. "So then, what do you associate me with – slutty and cruel?"

He sneered. "If you're trying to prove that you're _not_ cruel, you're doing a pretty awful job right now."

"Get off of me," she snapped.

"No."

"_House_."

He ignored her. "And as for the former… well, you _did_ have sex in an elementary school – not that I'm complaining."

"I am," she said coolly, trying to sit up.

"Uh uh." He pushed her back down on the bed.

But he made no move to undress her any further. He would push – that was in his nature – but he wouldn't push past the point of no return. He refused.

"Do you think you can _insult_ me and still get me to blow you?" Her eyes narrowed on him as though she dared him to say yes.

"You tell me."

He watched her carefully as she thought about what he was asking her. As much as he liked to flirt with boundaries, in _here_ at least, he was determined not to barrel past them.

But once more realizing how lucky he was, he was relieved when he heard her sigh in exasperation. It meant he was going to get away with it.

"I hate you," she whined. When he didn't respond, she threw her hands in the air. "Well? Continue with your foreplay."

Grateful, he leaned over to kiss her. As he did so, his penis happened to nestle itself between her bra-clad breasts. It felt so good he had trouble remembering what he'd been trying to do.

Wordlessly he kissed her, his mind hoping that his lips and tongue could convey to her what he didn't feel brave enough to say. He knew he was awful in every way imaginable to her. He knew that he hurt her in ways that no one in their right mind would ever let him get away with. And though he never meant to do any of it, though she was understanding of that fact, he also knew that it wasn't okay for him to continue without even this lame version of an apology.

Her body warm against his, he was surprised to feel her sigh gently into him. Their lips separating, he pressed his forehead to hers.

They locked gazes.

And he wasn't sure if it was the kindness in her eyes or the fear that she might bite him later that made him speak, but either way, he couldn't help but say, "Cuddy… I wasn't... I'm…"

"You're awful at apologizing," she told him with a slight shake of her head. "But I'm not mad."

He wasn't convinced. "Really?"

"Don't get me wrong. I _plan_ on getting even."

"Great," he said with a frown.

"But I forgive you… for now."

"I don't like the sound of that. Makes me think I'm going to wake up with my penis in the next room."

She smiled a little and gave him a soft peck on the lips. "You'll be fine… and in the clinic doing every prostate exam I can find for you." He wanted to respond, but she was quick to add in a more authoritative manner, "Now either get off or get _off_."

He smirked and sat back once more. Things might have been tenuous moments ago, but they were once again back to the kind of dysfunction that passed for normalcy in this house. And setting back on her body, as he glanced down at her chest, he wondered why he'd thought any of this had been worth complaining over. It really hadn't been worth it at all, he realized as his fingers undid the powder blue clasp of her bra. Because as he pushed away the cups designed for a thirteen year old virgin, he remembered that what lie beneath the lacy material were two things definitely _not_ made for a teenager.

Palming her breasts greedily, he liked the way her sensitive nipples instinctively hardened under his grasp. He smirked in response. "You like that?"

"It's cold."

"That's it?"

She rolled her eyes. She would have been lying if she'd said it felt bad. Obviously it didn't. But if she were aroused at all, it was more of a physiological response than anything else. And since this was all for _his_ arousal anyway, she didn't mind it.

"If I say yes," she inquired in a voice that sounded like a purr. "Are you going to shrivel up and slink away?"

He pinched a nipple roughly. She gasped. "There isn't going to be any _slinking_ until I come down that pretty little throat of yours."

"Good."

And since he wanted to come sooner than later, House chose not to respond and concentrated on the task at hand.

Of course, by this point, whatever spit she'd smeared along his cock had practically dried up. At least it wouldn't be enough lubricant for what he had in mind anyway. But he knew how to take care of that; if he hadn't, masturbating as a teenage boy would have been pretty painful.

He spat on the palm of his hand without ceremony. Without fail Cuddy grimaced, "That's disgusting."

Paying no attention to her, he quickly greased the length of his cock. He was at the point where he no longer cared about taking things slowly. He just needed – his _dick_ needed – to move things along.

And he planned on doing just that.

Palming her breasts once more, House slid his penis between them.

Her body naturally had a sweet little valley between her breasts. The product of not having a lot of body fat but still having really nice tits, it provided him with quite the distraction when she wore low-cut tops. Because aside from a nice glimpse at her boobs, it made him fantasize – almost to the exclusion of anything else – about slipping his penis between her breasts and how it would feel to have her warm, flawless flesh against his heated prick.

He wouldn't be fantasizing any longer today.

His fingers, now suddenly entwined and covered by hers, pressed against the outer curves of her breasts, cocooning his dick wonderfully.

Of course, not even for a second did he think Cuddy was enjoying this. If she were helping him, it was because she was being rather generous. She might have liked the show he was about to put on; she might have liked the way his thumbs rubbed against her nipples every so often. But he didn't believe that she was turned on by this.

Then again, he didn't care.

She could stop him if she wanted, but if she wasn't…

He was going to go ahead and fulfill this fantasy once more.

Slowly, experimentally, he began to move. He didn't want to get too active; after all, he was still practically sitting on her. But he was eager to get things going once more.

Thrusting in and out, he was glad that Cuddy was helping with his grip on her chest. Without it, he was sure would have lost his hold. But with it, he was able to focus on the feel of her warm skin wrapped around him. Her hard nipples tickled the backs of his thumbs, but he was more entranced by the way his dick looked between her breasts.

It felt great - the friction from and the contours of her body creating an entirely different experience for him. His thrusts increasing as the heated tension within his body reached a new level, he couldn't deny that it felt pretty damn good.

But mainly, if he were being quite honest, the greater turn on came from the way it _looked_. His body on top of hers, his penis nestled between and thrusting out of her now jiggling tits… _yeah_, _that_ was the greater turn on.

Until Cuddy decided to up the ante.

Perhaps she'd just gotten bored of seeing him fuck her tits (though he doubted it). Perhaps she wanted to move onto other things. He didn't know. But whatever the reason, at that moment, she tucked her chin into her chest. Her head was barely off her pillow, but she was just close enough for her tongue to dart out of her parted lips and lick the tip of his thrusting dick.

It was barely a whisper of a touch, the little beaded line of saliva connecting her lower lip to his penis the only proof that it had happened. But it was more than enough.

Groaning his approval loudly, he released his hold on her breasts. It had been great while it lasted, but just that small hint of what her mouth could do had him wanting more.

"Lay your head back down," he said in a voice just above a whisper.

She smiled and obeyed. Although this wasn't her favorite position to give a blow job, she was happy to _not_ feel their spit in between her breasts any longer. House had enjoyed it obviously, his dick so hard that it looked painful. And she understood that, from his prospective, it would have felt great. But _she_ wasn't getting anything from it.

True, she couldn't deny that seeing House turned on to _any_ degree sent her own desire skyrocketing. That he should like that act at all meant, on some level, she would enjoy it as well.

Having sex with her breasts just wasn't ever going to be her method of choice.

A blow job on the other hand…

She could more than enjoy that. Sometimes, just the feel of him coming inside of her mouth was more than enough to send _her_ over the edge. It probably wouldn't right now, thanks to her own orgasm only moments ago. But nevertheless, she enjoyed giving as much as she liked receiving.

And House knew that, which was why he wasn't surprised to see her smile as he shimmied up her body. She bit her bottom lip in anticipation, and he thought he was quite possibly the luckiest man on earth.

But he wasn't going to tell her that.

Instead he told her as though he were talking to a child, "Open your mouth for Daddy."

She laughed a little. "That is creepy."

Silently House fisted his penis and guided it towards her mouth. Teasing him, she hadn't opened her mouth yet, so he decided to return the favor by lazily drawing his cock head along her lips. At this point he was beginning to leak pre-cum, and he eagerly smeared it across her mouth as though it were lipstick.

Immediately, whatever joyful ease had been in her face disappeared. Now her eyes, looking at him through hooded lids, smoldered with desire. Now, instead of a laugh and a smile, she was serious and hungrily licking her lips. And when he told her, "Open your mouth," this time she didn't even begin to hesitate.

Neither did he.

The second her teeth were out of the way, he thrust forward into her mouth. Her tongue instinctively bumped against the bottom of his prick. She was clearly taken back by the depth to which he'd immediately gone, a hand immediately clutching his good thigh.

He stopped moving, though he didn't pull back any.

She was too warm and wet for him to do that. The fact that her nipples were tickling the backs of his legs made him even less willing to move. He liked where he was, and he was too close to absolute heaven to pull out.

But he wasn't completely heartless either. As he felt her mouth try to accommodate him, the feeling of which just made him want to ram himself down her throat, he resisted the urge. And as her eyes watered from the intrusion, he stroked her hair. "Relax," he told her. "Just breathe through your nose."

From what he could tell, Cuddy did. But not before the tears in her eyes spilled over. Falling down her cheeks in rivulets, they met their end on House's thumbs as he wiped them away.

Realizing that his behavior actually seemed kind of sweet, he tried to make light of the situation. "Is it weird that watching you cry is turning me on?"

She pinched him in response, and he took that to mean that things were okay, that she was in her usual state of amusement and agitation… that he could continue.

Pulling out a little bit, he told her, "Just don't puke on me, 'kay?" Obviously she couldn't respond, which he liked.

He liked it even better when he thrust himself back into her. Not so much a blow job as it was him using her face as eagerly and roughly as he would any other hole, he loved the way her hot mouth felt around him.

"_God_."

House uttered the word aloud, and Cuddy, clearly pleased with herself, moved her hand away from his thigh. At first he was tempted to order her to put it back; he liked that tender touch (though he would never _say_ that) that counteracted his thrusts and the way he was gripping her face and hair. But he didn't get a chance to say anything. Before he could, she had both of her hands palming his ass.

With each thrust into her, she began urging him in that direction. And he immediately understood what she wanted.

"You want more of this?" he asked her tauntingly, pulling out so just the tip of his dick was in her mouth. She responded by swirling her tongue around him eagerly.

She _would_ have responded by deep throating him if she could. But his hands held her still, and this was all she could do.

"I think you do want more," he answered, mainly to himself. "Such a good little cocksucker."

Bit by bit, inch by inch, he began to feed her his swollen prick. She didn't choke; she'd done this enough times to avoid doing that. But as he stuffed her face, House could feel the tiny muscles within her shift nervously. And when he pushed himself deep into her throat, he could feel her body tighten at the invasion.

He moaned in response and began thrusting mercilessly into her.

He couldn't stop now even if he wanted to; the wetness of her body made every motion easy and comfortable, and the way she hummed her approval of the way he fucked her face, even as he threatened to accidentally pull out some of her hair, was driving him to new heights.

Cuddy used her tongue to lap at the underside of his cock; she hummed louder to make him even crazier, the vibrations more than likely adding something to the experience. She greedily pawed at his ass to encourage him to screw her as hard as he could, to come inside of her as deeply as he could.

But she could say nothing when he started to mutter, "Oh yeah. Take it. Take it for me." Over and over he said it, as though it were a chant he didn't even realize he was saying.

The sight of him, sweaty and aroused, thrusting into her – _using_ her was making her own body warm and wet. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but roll her eyes at the way he was talking to her.

Unfortunately for her, he saw this. Lightly he slapped her face; her vaginal muscles twitched with desire. "Behave," he warned. "Just take it like a good little girl," he said in between groans.

The slap didn't hurt as much as it surprised her, and in doing so, it made her throat tighten around him. Promptly forgetting everything that had just happened, he pumped vigorously.

He fucked her as hard as he could, his balls swaying with the effort. By now her jaw and lips must have ached from being spread so wide for so long, but he wasn't trying to finish for humanitarian reasons.

Speeding up even more, he moaned as her throat tightened like it knew what was about to happen. He was close – so close – and both of their bodies knew it.

"Now you listen to me," he said through gritted teeth, which made him sound angry even though he wasn't. As he tightened his grip on her face once more with an almost bruising force, he explained with effort, "You better… swallow all of this like a good girl." He grunted out the last word as the hot confines of her mouth threatened to undo him. "If I see even… a _drop_, I'll punish you."

He looked her in the eyes to see if she understood. What he saw was an unwavering and _uncharacteristic_ obedience. And he wasn't sure if it was that, the way her mouth seemed to suddenly suck him in even further, or the sight of her taking him inside of her that did it, but either way…

He couldn't take anymore.

His hands tightened on her even further, and he came. A loud moan filling the air, he felt himself come in one long undulating wave of pleasure. Cuddy nearly choked with the effort of swallowing what he was giving her, the noise she was making still barely audible over the sounds he was making.

But he'd barely finished his last thrust into her when they _both_ heard a noise above everything else.

Neither needed to turn around to know that Rachel was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock. Neither needed to look back to hear her ask, "What are you doing?"

Neither needed to look, because they knew they'd been caught.

_To be continued_


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Notes: Wow, I received so many reviews for the last chapter. I can't believe it. Thank you so much to Housecall, wrytingtyme, rosehustle1, Josam, huddyholic, Temo, sydneybristow85, scullschik, Kwala, lin12344, jehabib1, red blood, anonymous, TrudyGill23, HouseBroken, Neelie2009, newsession, CuttingOnions, Jane Q. Doe, Scuddrific, DoctorLisaCuddy, Bumblebee-Queen, lhoma320, Huddyphoric, and tuckp3 for taking the time to leave me feedback. I seriously can't thank you enough.

_Disclaimer: The show does not belong to me… obviously._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Eight: Sex and Lies**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

Rachel had caught them.

Rachel had seen them.

No – _was_ seeing them, he corrected.

House felt dizzy with realization, his heart pounding in his chest as though the muscle was doing everything it could to hurl itself into his rib cage. He scrambled to pull himself out of Cuddy's mouth.

She was choking in surprise, and he knew that that alone could take a bad situation and make it worse. After all, it would have been one thing for Rachel to catch them and something else entirely for Cuddy to accidentally bite him out of shock.

But by some miracle, he was able to pull out without her teeth and his penis meeting somewhere along the way.

Thank God.

Of course, that feeling of relief didn't last long. How could it? He might have been bite free, but at the end of the day, he was still sitting naked on top of his girlfriend, who was also half-naked, with a five year old looking at them. And whereas Cuddy had the advantage of having her dress on and him over top of her, House had nothing to block Rachel's view of his ass. Which he supposed was better than Rachel getting a view of his dick in Cuddy's mouth, but still, it was hard to think that the kid, behind them, getting a shot of his ass was an advantage of any sort.

Especially when he didn't know what to do next.

Hovering over Cuddy he wasn't sure if he should roll off of her, which would give Rachel an eyeful, or if he should try and crawl off of her in a manner that looked not unlike he was doing push ups.

The former seemed easier but more likely to piss Cuddy off (you know, more than she was already going to be pissed off at him for not locking the door). On the other hand, the latter seemed less likely to flash the twig and berries to the entire gathering in his bedroom. But there was also a good chance that he would make a wrong move while trying to scuttle off of Cuddy and one of them would get hurt.

Leave it to him to think of the options in such a damned-if-you do moment, he thought miserably.

But in the end, it didn't matter what he thought was the best idea; Cuddy shoving him to the side, his body doing a lame flop belly side down into the mattress, was apparently the option they were going to go with.

He was okay with that though; he wasn't hurt in the process; Rachel wasn't blinded by the sight of him, and before he'd even had a chance to grab hold of the sheets off the bed he hadn't made that morning, Cuddy was already up. How she managed to right her dress so quickly, he would never know. But by the time she was standing, her neckline was already back in its place, making it seem as though it had never been _out_ of its place to begin with.

Only her unhooked bra, which bunched underneath her dress, spoke of the predicament she'd been in only seconds ago.

Well, it was the only thing about _her_ that provided any sort of testament; certainly, the fact that he was only wearing a t-shirt and Rachel a look of shock attested to the same thing, but it was the unhooked bra that gave Cuddy away. You know, more than the frazzled way she hurried over to Rachel did anyway.

"Rachel... Rachel, honey, you need to… go away," Cuddy said in words that were alternatively rushed and halted in such a way that screamed how distressed she was by this whole situation.

Rachel, however, was unmoved. Rooted to the spot, she simply asked again, "What were you doing?"

Cuddy didn't even know what to say.

How was she supposed to answer that question?

She didn't know, so she didn't, relying on the one thing that seemed to make sense to her. "I… will tell you later. But right now, you need to wait in the hallway."

"But –"

"Let's go," Cuddy said, steering her daughter out into the hallway by the shoulders. Rachel turned around to protest some more, but Cuddy was too quick for her, shutting the door in Rachel's face before she'd even had a chance to open her mouth. And before she had a chance to open the door once more, Cuddy locked it as well.

There was no denying that it was _not_ the nicest way of handling things. But she didn't care. As Rachel thankfully retreated down the hallway, Cuddy could only concern herself with how unbearably awful this whole thing was.

Reality seeping in slowly, the longer she thought about it, the more she realized just how bad it was.

Rachel had seen them naked.

No.

Not just naked.

She'd seen them having _sex_.

She'd seen House on top of her mother, House with his penis in –

"Oh God," Cuddy muttered, her voice shaky with fear. "Oh _God_." She scrubbed her face with her hands, as a mental picture of what Rachel must have seen formed in Cuddy's head.

_That_ just made everything worse, made everything _sickening_, and Cuddy had to swallow hard to keep the bile in the back of her throat from escaping.

To no one, she said, "I think I'm going to be sick."

But House had heard her nonetheless. And he was… regrettably intrigued by the whole prospect. He'd never had a girlfriend throw up mere minutes after going down on him, and though he knew it was wrong, yeah, he was a little curious to see what such a thing would look like.

He wasn't going to say that though.

Looking at Cuddy, he could tell that she was upset – maybe even uncharacteristically on the verge of tears. Frankly, that _rarely_ happened (rare that she cried and rarer still that she would let him see it), and the fact that it was happening made House realize that he needed to make his next move carefully. Which meant he couldn't possibly tell her about his mild interest in seeing what puked up semen looked like; that just wasn't going to be well received by anyone in her state anywhere at any time.

Knowing that, House said instead, "She'll be fine."

What he'd wanted to say was _you'll_ be fine, but he knew she wouldn't appreciate hearing that. Because what she would hear would be a paternal attempt to get her to relax, which in her insane mind would mean that he was accusing her of being an overreacting harpy or something equally stupid, and he wasn't going to have that fight [again]. So he'd chosen smartly to avoid taking about Cuddy altogether.

To debatable success.

Cuddy turned to look at him, her eyes filled with doubt. "She just walked in on us having _sex_, House." Her stomach twisted itself into knots at the thought. "How am I supposed to explain that to her? She's _five_. What am I supposed to –"

"You lie to her," he responded easily. "Tell her –"

"I can't _lie_ to –"

"Well, what's the alternative?" he asked curiously. "You tell her the truth? Yeah, that sounds like a great idea, explaining what oral sex is to someone who doesn't even know what a penis is."

Cuddy gritted her teeth. "She knows the differences between boys and girls, although if she didn't, I think _you_ just gave her a perfect demonstration."

Had she really meant to make that sound like an accusation? No, she thought. She hadn't done that intentionally. But now that the words were out of her mouth, she couldn't find it in her to take them back. Because whether it made sense or not, something inside of her said that this was House's fault, and she didn't know why that was.

But she was going to listen to that voice anyway.

"She didn't see anything," he insisted.

"You're wearing a _t-shirt_. She saw –"

"Not _that_." Of that, he was absolutely convinced. Of course, he didn't expect Cuddy to believe him, so he added, "But even if she did get the full frontal, that's just more of a reason to lie." She scoffed. "I mean it."

"I know," she said with a nod of the head. "You think that everything is made better with a lie, right? So of _course_, I should lie to her – to my _child_. That would make much more sense than trying to actually explain to her –"

"There's no explanation you can give her that's going to make sense."

He looked at her as though he couldn't for the life of him understand why she would want to tell Rachel the truth, and that made Cuddy want to punch him. "You're right," she said bitterly. "Nothing I tell her is going to make sense. So why shouldn't I tell her the truth? If she's going to be confused anyway, why shouldn't I tell her –"

"Because she's going to repeat anything you say to anyone who will listen," House explained. "You start talking about _sex_; she's not going to shut up about that. At least if you lie, when she tells people that I helped fold your laundry or _whatever_, no one will care."

Cuddy gave him a disgusted look. "I'm not saying that we were folding laundry."

"Then make something else up," he replied, tossing his hands in the air. "Just don't tell her the truth, because you're too much of a _moron_ to come up with a good lie –"

"Go to Hell," she snapped angrily.

But he ignored the outburst and continued talking, "And don't expect _her_ to remain quiet about whatever it is you _do_ say. Because she won't, and if you tell her about sex, every kid she comes in contact with is going to repeat what she said to their parents, and _then_, you're really going to feel like throwing up. 'Cause none of those people are going to be nearly as impressed with your kid as you are."

The words had come out faster than he could stop them. A thought process that refused to be cut off shortly, it was something he couldn't control much less take back now.

So much for treading carefully, he lamented.

Instinctively, he knew that he'd just screwed everything up. Of course, he would have had to have been deaf, dumb, blind, and generally unconscious to _miss_ Cuddy's anger, but still, he couldn't help but think that he'd messed up to himself.

He _really_ had.

He'd only meant to say that telling Rachel the truth would be more problematic and guilt invoking than any lie would end up being. But somehow he'd managed to blow right past that point to drive home a reminder that she was a moron and her kid was liked by no one.

Putting it that way, he realized, made it sound like he'd accidentally done that. And in some ways, it _was_ an accident; he hadn't intended from the start to make things worse for himself.

He hadn't started the conversation hoping that he'd get an opportunity to insult his girlfriend and her kid.

Yet at the same time, he knew he couldn't qualify what he said as an accident.

Wherever he'd taken the conversation… he'd meant to go there. Not _maliciously_, he told himself; he hadn't said any of those things to be cruel as much as he'd said them out of… an ironic but unstoppable need to be honest.

"See?" he asked, gesturing to himself. Making sure the point wasn't lost on her, House said, "This is the problem with honesty."

But if he expected her to respond angrily, he was shocked when she didn't. Unmoved in any way, she simply told him, "Lucky for you, this decision isn't yours to make."

And he understood immediately why she said that.

It was insulting in a way no actual insult could ever be.

Going far beyond name-calling, she was _dismissing_ him. She was saying his opinion was irrelevant, that _he_ was irrelevant to her when it came to this matter. And the implication of all of that was that _he_ was _not_ part of the family; if he were, his feelings would be important, would be considered. But _this_ just meant that…

He lifted out of the equation easily.

He wasn't part of the family.

He was just… a _guest_ in her home, in her _life_.

And that – _that_ – was more insulting and hurtful than anything else she could have possibly said.

Which was odd, because deep down, he knew that that was what he'd been claiming to want all this time. From the moment they'd begun dating, he'd resisted being anything more than a boyfriend. He hadn't wanted to be Rachel's father, hadn't wanted to insinuate himself into her life like that. But somehow hearing Cuddy point that out now… _hurt_.

And that not only confused him, it also made him livid – with her, with himself, all of it.

Yet he didn't even get a chance to say anything before she told him, "I'm going to go take a shower, so that when I do talk to Rachel, I'm not covered in your semen."

She was talking as though the very idea of his come repulsed her, but he was okay with that; right now, he wasn't exactly taken with _her_ either, and the idea of having sex with her ever again seemed like the furthest thing from his mind. "Good to know," he said with a sneer.

"You're _not_ going to talk to her while I'm gone."

Under normal circumstances, he would have assumed that there was a question mark at the end of her sentence. But the way her shoulders were set firmly, which mimicked the hardness in her voice, made it absolutely clear that she was not _asking_ him to avoid Rachel.

Cuddy was _telling_ him.

"This is my decision, and I've made my choice." As she stalked towards the bathroom, she said, perhaps sensing his umbrage, insensitively, "Live with it."

House sat there pantless and unimpressed by her whole display. As was her way, she was trying to control all of the variables in this equation as overtly as possible. She was clearly under the impression – as she usually was – that, because he was obnoxious, being obnoxious was the way to dominate him. And as usual…

She was wrong.

Truth be told, when she tried to make herself seem more in control than she was, he felt the need to undermine her even more than he normally would. When she inflated like a puffer fish, _he_ got the urge to pop her like a balloon. And in this case, deflating her as quickly as possible meant, even though she'd forbidden it, even though he didn't really _want_ to do it, talking to Rachel.

He didn't even consider how angry Cuddy would be when she found out what he'd done. Why would he consider something he really didn't give a shit about? But he _did_ think about what it was he was going to say to Rachel.

As he stood up and searched around for his pants, he immediately discarded the idea of telling the kid the truth in any sort of sensible manner. That would be doing precisely what _Cuddy_ wanted.

Oh, she would still find a way to be pissed at him. He had no doubt about that. But there was also a chance that she would mistake his behavior for some convoluted attempt at being kind, and he didn't want her to think that he was trying to help her deal with this situation at all. That would be like giving someone the middle finger and them acting as though you'd given them roses.

He did _not_ want that.

So that just left him with either telling Rachel the truth brutally (and giving her all sorts of wrong information about sex) or lying. And for a brief moment, he really did consider telling Rachel a… _form_ of the truth.

He could tell her that they'd had sex and then tell her several things that would be absolutely untrue but also absolutely funny for _him_ to have her believe. But how funny would that really be, he wondered. Sure, it'd be great for a while, but how long would it take before Rachel repeating all of the stupid things he told her got boring? How long _after_ that would she still say all of those things? And how much longer after _that _would Cuddy still bust his balls?

With a sigh, he finally located his pants and admitted to himself that, as fun as it would be to mess with Rachel's head, it wasn't going to be worth it. Besides, if he were being honest with himself – and in this instance he had no reason not to be – he would admit that lying to a kid about what sex actually entailed could be…

He didn't want to say dangerous, but there was no denying that things could end badly, depending on how much he messed with her head.

So that just left him with the option of creating a lie to explain his behavior with Cuddy that wouldn't leave Rachel completely confused or messed up.

Funny, he thought dryly, how the best option was the one he'd suggested to begin with.

But then, what else was new?

Quickly getting dressed, House reminded himself that, no matter what he decided to do, he would need to do it soon. Cuddy had just closed the bathroom door behind her, yes, but even though he had yet to hear the water run, he knew it would only be a matter of time before she was in and out and _done_. And if he weren't fast enough, she could easily interrupt and put a stop to his little plan.

Knowing that, he was almost relieved to see Rachel standing right outside the bedroom door when he yanked it open; it meant he wouldn't have to waste time trying to find her.

Her eyes were wide with shock as she looked up to see _him_, the person she clearly wasn't expecting or wanting to see. "Where's Mommy?"

She whined the question loudly, unknowingly threatening his plans by being vocal enough that it might catch Cuddy's attention.

Hurriedly House closed the bedroom door behind him. Hopefully that would drown out any noise Rachel made.

Looking down at her, he said lamely, "She's busy."

"Doing what?"

"Showering."

"Why?"

House rolled his eyes. "She's washing the stench of shame off her body." At that, Rachel blinked in confusion, something she tended to do when he told her something that she couldn't quite understand. "Never mind," he said with a wave of his hand. "What do you want?"

He hadn't meant to, but there was no denying that he had asked the question in a way that just made him sound irritated. And Rachel clearly sensed that, because she just nervously looked at him, everything about her screaming that she didn't know what to say.

Sighing, he reluctantly placed a hand on her shoulder. He didn't _want_ to touch her; indeed, it was generally against his rules to initiate or accept any sort of contact with her. But at the moment, he needed to in order to steer her away from the bedroom door. "Come on," he told her in a voice that he hoped sounded kinder.

It was hard to tell if he'd succeeded though. Although she did end up following him as he started walking down the hallway, he could see her, out of the corner of his eye, nervously begin to suck her thumb.

"Your mom's fine," he told her awkwardly, as though that would allay the tension (and maybe a little fear) set in Rachel's features. "She'll be out in a minute."

She said something in response that he couldn't understand. The thumb in her mouth and low voice made it impossible for him to make out what she was telling him.

"What?" But asking that just made her even more uncharacteristically bashful. He wasn't sure if her newfound reticence was the result of him grabbing her earlier, what she'd just walked in on, something else entirely, or some combination of all of that. To be sure, any of those factors were probably enough to scare a five year old. That so much had happened today didn't make discerning the cause any easier, and after a minute of watching her fumble to repeat what she'd just said, he gave up on figuring out the reason all together.

Instead, he gently plucked her thumb from her mouth. "I can't understand you when _this_ is in your mouth," he told her, dropping her slobbery hand.

By now, whatever nervousness she'd been feeling had been replaced with annoyance. Apparently having to repeat herself was as irritating for her as not understanding her was for him. Everything about her glum and agitated, she asked, "What were you doing in there?"

"Nothing," he told her gruffly.

But Rachel didn't buy it. "You're lying."

Truthfully, he didn't care that she was going to press him on the matter. If he'd refused to answer her question at all, it had been merely to a). see if she would drop the subject and b). give himself more time to come up with some sort of reasonable excuse. And yet, he still wasn't exactly sure what he should say to her.

Mistaking his silence for refusing to answer the question altogether, Rachel stomped her foot and whined, "Tell me."

She was so annoying that House couldn't help but want to give her a taste of her own medicine; perhaps if she saw how irritating she was, she would stop. In this case, he didn't stomp his foot, but mimicking her high pitch, he repeated in a whiny voice, "_Tell me._"

Rachel was not amused.

"Don't," she said in a voice that made it sound almost as though she were affronted by being copied.

Like that was going to stop him. "_Don't_."

"I mean it," she warned, her pug nose scrunching up in spunky anger.

"_I mean it_."

"No!"

"_No,_" he mocked, allowing himself to enjoy a five year old's torment much more than he should have.

But that joy was not shared with Rachel, who was so frustrated by what House was doing that she shoved him as hard as she could and screamed, "I hate you!"

To be fair, her attempt at pushing him was for all intents and purposes a complete failure; he was too big and she too small to make him go anywhere at her request. If he kept moving at all, it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him wanting to get as far away from Cuddy as possible.

And since he wasn't giving Rachel the response she wanted, now not even repeating what she'd said to him, it was a good thing that he _was_ moving. Because she let out a half-whine, half-scream at that moment that would have surely made Cuddy come running if she could hear it.

Still, House ignored the kid, and she, desperate for his attention, kept following him and whining like an annoying dog yapping at someone's heels.

But as irritating as the whole thing was, some part of him knew that this was actually a kind of positive turn of events. The more she pestered him and the more he withheld, the more likely it was that she would believe him when he finally said something to her. The more it would seem as though she'd berated him until he _had_ to confess what had happened. And most importantly, the less convincing the lie would actually need to be.

Seriously, by the time they'd entered the kitchen, Rachel was so desperate for some sort of answer that he didn't even have to bother inventing an elaborate lie. And when she demanded once more, "Tell me," he said the first excuse that came to mind.

"My leg hurt," he said, his words reflecting how he felt at that moment. True, it went without saying that his leg _always_ hurt. But given the way Rachel had grabbed it earlier, given the way he'd overexerted it from walking through an icy parking lot and from fucking Cuddy like he'd never had sex before, it hurt worse than it had in… a while. It hadn't helped that hurting Rachel and fighting with Cuddy were providing the backdrop for all of that – though he refused to admit, even to himself, that any of _that_ had any effect on his leg. But the exact reason for the pain hardly mattered in comparison to the pain itself _and_ to the way he was prepared to use it to manipulate Rachel.

_She_ just didn't know it yet.

Actually, all she seemed to be under the impression of was that he blamed her. Her gaze lowering to her feet, she mumbled quietly, "I didn't do it."

House looked at her sharply. "Look, I know spelling isn't your strong suit, what with you being five and all, but I can promise you: no matter how you scramble the letters, you're not going to get 'I blame you' from 'My leg hurts.'" As an afterthought, he added, "Try slug hem? Yes. This is all your fault? Not so much."

However, House knew he couldn't wait for her to respond. Although he would have liked to make sure she understood that he wasn't blaming her, he had a sneaking suspicion that she would just continue to fight him on the matter if he were to give her a chance. And that was the last thing he wanted to do, so he continued to explain. "_Anyway_, my leg hurt. Mommy, deciding that her life should read like the source material for _Chicken Little_, wanted to take a look at it. I let her, which you then saw."

Okay. It wasn't a very good lie. He could admit that much. Sure, he'd been the one to suggest lying in the first place, but that didn't mean he was going to come up with anything _good_. And more importantly, that didn't mean he _needed_ a good lie.

True, the story he was trying to sell was stupid, but then again, so was Rachel. She had all the experience and intelligence of an average five year old, which was to say she had very little of either, and he didn't feel the need to come up with anything elaborate, because something simple would get the job done just as well.

Or not.

As she took his words in, Rachel narrowed her eyes on him and then said, "If that's true –"

"It is," he said, cutting her off.

"Then why were you naked?" She giggled out the last word as though she were embarrassed to bring that fact up.

Frankly, he wasn't exactly pleased by that turn of events either, but he did a much better job at hiding his discomfort.

Focusing all of his attention on the lie instead, House said simply, "Your mother doesn't have X-ray vision."

"Oh," Rachel replied dimly. Clearly she hadn't thought of that, which made him scoff.

"Yeah, _oh_." As wrong as it was, he couldn't help but be a little snide to her. He didn't have enough self-control to resist.

But if he felt cocky, even for just a second, Rachel was quick to dash that feeling.

Confused, she asked, "But… but… then… why was _Mommy_ naked?"

Yup, he thought miserably. _This_ was why he didn't talk to the kid unless absolutely necessary. _This_ was why he should have let Cuddy handle this situation as wrongly as she wanted to. Because as gullible as Mowgli was, she still, nonetheless, had this way of… doubting him without even realizing that that was what she was doing.

Honestly, it was _such_ a hassle to deal with that, to deal with _her_ and her _questions_. He fully understood the irony, could appreciate that there was something hypocritical in his irritation. As someone who had never really grown out of what she was doing now, House could see that this moment was little more than him facing the same kind of curiosity that he'd never been able to shake.

And perhaps knowing that was supposed to make him more sympathetic to Rachel, was supposed to make him like her more.

But it didn't.

In that moment, that quality in her, though reflected in his own nature, was just annoying.

Maybe that wasn't fair. In fact, he could willingly concede that it wasn't. But right now, he didn't care.

And his irritation showing, he snapped in a rough voice, "I said she was taking a shower, didn't I? Do you shower with your clothes on?"

Rachel sounded equally annoyed when she spoke. "You weren't in the bathroom."

"_No_. But your mother was _headed_ that way when she realized that my leg was hurting me. I've already told you what happened after that."

Deep down inside, like… where her oatmeal was inside, Rachel was sure she was missing something. House was telling her stuff, and it made sense, sort of. But it kinda felt like that one time when Mommy had said she could have a lollipop and left out the part where she'd have to get _shots_ at the doctor's in order to get it.

_Something_ was being left out.

Rachel was sure of it.

But at the same time, what he was saying _did_ make sense, and she didn't have a better story to explain what she'd seen, and she didn't_ really_ want to think about what she had seen anymore.

She _really, really, really, really_ did _not_ want to think about House being naked (ew!) anymore.

_Maybe_ she could ask Mommy about this later. But Rachel was sure that she wouldn't get a different answer from anyone she asked. Adults had a habit of sticking together, so chances were _nobody_ was going to tell her anything.

Still, she couldn't stop herself from asking, "Then why were you on top of her like that?"

She knew that House, being a big poopy head, would think it was a dumb question. But it wasn't. It wasn't a stupid question at all. Cause she knew that you could look at a leg like she had done earlier today. Nobody had been on top of her, and she had seen everything really clearly. And yeah, Mommy sometimes wore glasses like Rachel's classmate Aiden did, but still, Mommy wasn't _blind_.

Actually, Mommy had really good eyes, because Rachel _never_ got away with anything when her mother was in the same room with her. Rachel always _tried_ to be sneaky, but she was never sneaky enough, and even though House said Mommy didn't have X-ray vision…

Rachel remained unconvinced.

And so it really didn't make sense for House to be that close to her mother just so she could get a look at his leg.

But House had an explanation for that too. "It was easier that way, Spawn. I was lying on the bed and didn't want to get up."

"But –"

"Your mother was right there, so that's how we did it."

Even to his own ears, the lie was getting more awful by the second. However, he knew there was no turning back at this point; once you started the lie, you had to keep going, keep lying until the story you were spinning made sense.

Case in point, Rachel nodded her head. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Uh huh. But…" She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "I am _never_ going to look at your leg like –"

"I think we're all glad that _that's_ never going to happen," he told her with a sincerity he didn't know he possessed. Of course in speaking like that, he worried that it would catch Rachel's attention.

In a way, he wondered how it could not? From her perspective, he supposed that she would think: if what he was saying was the truth, if Cuddy had just been examining his leg in a bizarre way, what was so weird about Rachel…

House refused to finish the thought, and hoping _very much_ that he wouldn't have to elucidate any further for her (something that would require him to binge drink the rest of his life away), he walked away from the kid.

It was easier that way.

It said that the conversation was over anyway.

Turning away from her, he headed further into the kitchen. He was assuming she understood that the conversation was over, but he didn't really care if she didn't. As long as she wasn't bothering him, he had no problems at all.

Well, _that_ wasn't exactly true. Cuddy was already pissed at him and would be even more so after she found out what he had just done. And glancing down at the trashcan in front of him, he knew that there were other issues at hand – specifically the broken bowl right before him now.

There were shards of other things in the trash as well, but House knew it was the bowl that mattered. He'd only peripherally seen Rachel crash into the table in the hallway; he'd been too concerned with washing the MRSA off his dick from having sex at her school to really pay attention to what was going on. But that didn't mean he was unaware of what mattered to Cuddy in this situation.

Truthfully, it wasn't the bowl itself that she was upset over. However, since her father wasn't alive for her to direct her emotions at, the things he had given her were all she had left. And as long as she was going to funnel all of her disappointment, regret, and sorrow into inanimate objects, it was imperative for everyone else _not_ to break them. Or in this case, it was imperative to _fix_ them once already broken.

He could do it too, having already done it once before. This time would be a little harder, of course, because all of the pieces were smaller and mixed in with shards of glass from the vase and picture frame that had also broken. But it could – and _would_ – be done.

Grabbing the bag of trash, he started heading towards his office. Unfortunately, this piqued Rachel's curiosity, and she skipped behind him. "What are you doing?" she asked cheerily, apparently satisfied and completely over what she'd seen in the bedroom (thankfully).

"I'm going to fix the bowl you broke," he told her as he entered the room. Dropping the plastic bag on his desk, he didn't think there was any judgment in what he was saying. But there must have been, because as he turned to leave, he caught a glance of Rachel, and he could see:

She was about to cry.

He wanted to roll his eyes, so much so that it took every fiber of his being _not_ to. He didn't though. As easy as it would have been to give into the temptation, he suspected that Rachel was teeming with guilt. No thanks to her mother, he thought, who would have been too upset by her stupid bowl being crushed to consider how Rachel felt. And so, though he didn't exactly _want_ to be the one consoling Rachel, House knew that at the moment…

He was the only one who would.

Sighing loudly, he told her with little enthusiasm, "No one blames you."

Rachel clearly didn't believe him. Frowning she mumbled, "Mommy does."

House looked down at her. She seemed so sad, so guilty that he debated whether it was going to be necessary to….

He didn't even know how to finish that sentence.

There was a certain expectation growing within him that he needed to handle the situation, but all in all, he felt completely unsure of what form doing that would take.

And truthfully, it scared him. Although he didn't necessarily think he was _bad_ with kids… he also didn't think that he was particularly good with _this_ one. It was ironic, the way he could easily handle any other child who crossed his path but not the one who mattered. He could diagnose them and make fun of their parents for them and with them, but Rachel….

He shook his head.

She was different.

She was the Cuddy's. She was the one that mattered in all of this, the one that _needed_ to matter to him, and that was precisely why he felt completely inept. With her, saying goodbye at the end of the day wasn't an option. Screwing up came with a price far more costly than lawsuits or even dead patients. And even if part of him realized he wouldn't screw up that badly _now_, another part worried that he would make a mistake the more he told himself that he wouldn't.

So he couldn't help but be tentative when he told her, "She doesn't blame you."

Rachel nodded her head wildly. "She does." She rubbed tiredly at her eyes, but he couldn't make out any tears… thankfully. "She say she not, but I –"

"She's upset that some stuff got broken," he explained quickly. "Just like you would be if I took that stuffed duck of yours… the one Wilson gave you and –"

"Ling," she told him. "Her name is Ling."

"Doesn't matter. The point is if something happened to it, _you_ would be upset too. Your mother isn't any different."

"I guess," she muttered, her lower lip quivering.

Awkwardly he patted her on the head (it seemed like the right thing to do, oddly enough) and guided her out of his office. "Trust me. She doesn't hate you. If she got _that_ mad every time someone broke her things…"

Of its own volition, his mind began to recall all of the possessions House himself had broken over the years. Things had ranged from the trivial – bras and thongs and buttons on clothes that refused to open up quickly – to the bizarre – a blender broken when he'd shoved her onto the kitchen counter, a bathroom mirror Cuddy had crashed into when he'd tried to hoist her up onto his cock and banged her against the wall instead, the bed frame they'd managed to break somehow during a medical conference in Pasadena – to the expensive – multiple MRI machines. And sure, that last one was the only one that didn't involve sex [yet], but the point was still obvious in his mind: if Cuddy had cared about destruction of property, she would have chopped his balls off a _long_ time ago.

There was another point to be made, of course: having sex with Cuddy was kind of dangerous for an inanimate object. But he didn't think Rachel needed to know that. So he simply explained, "If she got that mad, I would be… not here. You're fine."

"'Kay" was all she said in response. And he couldn't tell if that meant she doubted him or if she actually believed him.

Instinct told him that she probably didn't believe him; the one time he was telling the truth she would naturally assume he was lying.

His gaze intent on her, he told her, "I'll talk to her. You… go play with something."

He didn't give her a chance to say anything in return. He walked away before that could happen.

Where he ended up was the bathroom Cuddy had decided to hole herself up in. He was surprised that she hadn't locked the door behind her. Given the way she'd ended their conversation, he'd just assumed he would have to break in. But instead, the door easily gave way, immediately allowing him to see her in the middle of the bathtub, her knees pulled up to her chest.

As he closed the door behind him, she glanced over to see who was intruding. And from the small distance, he could see her cheeks were red – though whether that was from crying or the heat, he couldn't really tell. So he decided to get a closer look.

Walking towards her, House asked, "You ever realize how many things we break during sex?"

She laughed softly, her amusement not quite earnest enough to make him relax. Her hand instinctively moving to the back of her head, she said, "I have a constant reminder, so yeah. I'm aware."

He sat down on the ledge of the tub. "You have a scar?" He gestured for her to show him.

In order to do that, she had to move her legs, the hot water sloshing loudly and beating against her body.

Laying her head in his lap, Cuddy guided one of his hands to the spot on her head that had required stitches when it had smacked into a mirror. And as he felt around her scalp, she couldn't help but smile a little when his other hand of its own volition moved to her upper back. As angry and peevish as she had been about Rachel, there was something so… undeniably _soothing_ to Cuddy about House touching her.

His words, on the other hand, could use some work, she thought, because at that moment, he said, "That?" His fingertips danced around the centimeter long line of raised skin. "That's nothing."

Propping her chin on his good thigh, she looked up at him. "I didn't say it was _something_, but thank you for the sympathy." He opened his mouth to respond, but she beat him to it; whatever he was going to say would be something smart and irritating, which she didn't feel like dealing with. And more than that, she was interested to know why he was bringing that up now. "What made you think of that anyway?"

House didn't even hesitate when he said, "Rachel thinks you hate her, because she broke your things."

The implication of his words did not go unnoticed.

In fact, she understood immediately:

He had talked to Rachel.

Realization spread through her veins like icy water through a stone riddled with cracks. Her throat felt liberally coated with bile, the acrid taste and idea that he had told her daughter whatever he'd wanted making it nearly impossible to swallow.

And yet, though she had no idea why this was, despite all of that, she managed to find her voice. As dejected sounding as it was, her voice refused to be silent. Which she was grateful for, because there was no way in hell she was going to let him get away with this.

"You talked to her."

He nodded his head. "Yes. And before you get mad at me, don't think I was using that as a segue." He cupped her cheeks with his hands, which she immediately brushed off. She didn't want him to touch her, and to emphasize that point, she scooted away from him in the bathtub. "Cuddy. She thinks you hate her. You need to fix it."

Folding her arms across her bare chest, she said in a dangerously low voice, "I'll take care of her after you tell me _why_ you disobeyed –"

"'Disobeyed'?" he asked, repeating her words in a way that made her realize how awful it sounded.

"That's not what I –"

"It _is_ what you meant," House insisted. "Part of you still thinks that if you're assertive…" He emphasized the "ass" portion of the word snidely. "I'll just do whatever you want."

She shook her head, missing his sneer. "That's not –"

"It _is_." When she didn't fight him on the matter, he continued, "The funny thing is you _know_ you can't control me. So I can't figure out why –"

"Because," she interrupted. "Because after deciding that I'm probably going to get fired –"

"You won't," he said insistently.

But she just kept talking over him, not even pausing to listen to his encouragement. "And seeing my daughter get into a fight and hearing that _stupid_ troglodyte of a woman say that everything that happens to Rachel in that idiotic class is _her_ fault and watching my own _child_ walk into our bedroom while we're…"

She couldn't finish the thought.

Actually, truth be told, the thought had been one she hadn't been able to _stop_ since Rachel had walked in on them. As though her mind were a broken record skipping at the same part over and over, Cuddy could only think of what Rachel had seen.

And each play through was turning out to be worse than the last.

At first, the focus had been on the nudity, on the fact that Rachel would have seen House's ass, testicles, maybe even his penis if she weren't busy looking at Cuddy's breasts and vagina. Of course, given the way the day had gone, Cuddy was sure that Rachel had seen _everything_.

But on the fifth replay of that fact, Cuddy understood that the nudity itself wasn't really the issue. How many times had she taken her daughter into a stall in a public bathroom with her? How many times had Rachel watched her change? And how long ago had it _really_ been since Rachel, fascinated by the knowledge that everyone urinated in the bathroom and now she could too, had had that habit of purposely barging into the bathroom anytime _anyone_ (House included) went in there? Considering how long it had taken Cuddy to break _that_ habit, it couldn't have been that long ago. So really Rachel seeing House and Cuddy naked wasn't the problem.

The issue was what they'd been doing naked. And the more Cuddy thought about that, the more she realized how awful all of this really was. Had they been naked? Yes, but worse than that was the fact that she had had House's penis in her _mouth_.

How was she going to explain that to a five year old?

And what would she do if Rachel had been watching them for a while? What would she tell her daughter if Rachel had seen House between Cuddy's breasts, if she'd seen House _slap_ her mother or say any of the things he'd said to her while they'd been having sex?

_That_ was what scared Cuddy the most.

She could handle the nakedness, maybe even the sex itself. But how could she explain away the rest of House's behavior?

She couldn't.

Not to a child anyway.

Admittedly, Cuddy's thinking made it sound like House had done something wrong, but she knew he hadn't. She wasn't trying to say even for a second that he had. But a child wouldn't understand that he wasn't hurting her. Someone who could only comprehend things in black and white, Rachel wouldn't see the shades of gray that House and her mother typically operated in. And because of that, Cuddy didn't know how she could possibly explain away their behavior.

It terrified her – to think that Rachel might believe with all of her heart that House would hurt her mother. And that fear, its claws snagged tightly into Cuddy's skin, refused to dissipate, no matter how much she wished it would.

Shaking her head, Cuddy forced herself back into the moment. And trying her very hardest to keep her voice calm and even, she explained to House, "I feel… _everything_ slipping through my grasp right now. Work. Rachel. All of it."

She swallowed hard before continuing once more. "I wasn't trying to control – I mean I was," she said lamely, her words as ineloquent and inarticulate as they could be. "I just…"

She shrugged and tried to find the right words. And when that didn't work, she told him, "I needed you to be… on my side."

"Where else would I be?" he asked curiously.

He really wanted to know. But at the same time, he wasn't surprised when she changed the subject. "What did you tell her?"

"That you were looking at my leg."

Cuddy's eyes widened momentarily in surprise. However, it was clear that she immediately suspected that he was lying, because soon after her eyes narrowed and she said, "You did not tell her that."

"I did."

"And she believed you?" House nodded his head. "And just so I know… how did you explain why _I_ was naked?"

He waved off her concern. "I told her you were getting ready to take a shower, and she believed that too."

Cuddy sighed and looked down at her hands. Thanks to the water, her fingertips were beginning to prune, and she knew she needed to get out soon. But somehow that prospect seemed more daunting than she could have ever imagined.

Pushing that inevitability to the side, she said quietly, "I don't know if that's a blessing or a curse."

"It should be a relief to you that you don't have to explain to the kid what blow jobs are," he told her in all seriousness.

She looked at him once more. "Yeah. What a relief that my daughter will believe _apparently_ anything you tell her. I'll just keep my fingers crossed that one of her male classmates doesn't skin his knee."

"You're being dramatic," he said with an eye roll.

"No, I'm –"

"You are. A little bit, cause everyone is fine. _Rachel_ is _fine. _But you're still borderline hysterical."

"I'm not hysterical."

"You –"

"And don't try to convince me that I am so that you can prescribe hysterical paroxysm," she told him, her eyes narrowing on him.

"Fine." Standing up, he added, "But for the record, I don't need to call you hysterical or do anything else to recommend orgasms to you."

Cuddy smirked. "I've noticed."

"So…" He leaned down over her, bracing himself on the lip of the tub. Moving in closer toward her, he kissed her softly. She was hesitant at first to respond in kind. Her lips still against his, it took her a few seconds before she was willing to kiss back.

He understood her reluctance obviously. After what they'd just been through, anything that could even _possibly_ lead to sex was something that probably should have been ignored. But nevertheless he couldn't help but ask, "You interested?"

She replied instantly. "No."

Dipping a hand into the warm water, he rubbed her knee gently. "You sure? You're already naked, so –"

"Keep your hands to yourself unless you're sure you can hold your breath for a _really_ long time," she warned in a way that gave him pause.

But he easily recovered. Cocking his head to the side, he said, "So does that you mean you want me to go down on you for a really long time or are you just planning on drowning me?"

She said nothing, but the dark look she gave him let him know which option she was leaning towards.

"Okay," he said breezily. "Got it." He stood up once more before adding, "You're all pruny anyways, and I'm not exactly a fan of wrinkly vag, so I'm good."

"You're disgusting. And _good_, because sex is the last thing I want to do with you right now."

At that, he looked at her seriously. He knew she wasn't being completely serious in her anger, but at the same time, he couldn't help but ask, "What do you want?"

She hesitated for a moment, her mind clearly trying to come up with some sort of answer. And briefly he considered the possibility that she would offer him no such thing, but then, all of a sudden, she murmured, "A sandwich."

"A sandwich," he repeated. "You want me to feed you."

"Well, as nice as your semen was, I could use something a little more substantial."

"Fine," he said after a second. "See? You can have all the control over me you want."

Smiling weakly, she replied in a soft voice, "Thank you."

He turned and started to head towards the bathroom door. But he didn't get very far before he stopped and turned around. "Just so you know though… from now on, whenever you feel need to dominate, I'd prefer it if you used handcuffs, you know, that sort of thing." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively to emphasize the point.

But that just made her sigh. "All things considered, I don't think now is the time to make bondage jokes."

Opening the door, House simply said, "There is no wrong time to make a bondage joke."

She was tempted to reply, but he slipped out of the room before she'd even had a chance to open her mouth. And she was okay with that. Honestly, given some of the things she'd said to him earlier, she was content to occupy this middle ground that they'd somehow managed to find. She certainly wasn't going to push matters any further.

Not if she could help it anyway.

In this relationship, it was necessary to add that caveat… unfortunately.

But that seemed to be the last thing on anyone's mind, Cuddy would realize when she entered the kitchen minutes later.

When she'd first pulled herself out of the bathtub, she had been convinced otherwise. As she got dressed and fixed her hair and make up once more, she had begun to feel with increasing intensity that the calm she had found with House had been so ephemeral that it wouldn't even exist when she saw him next.

Yet, standing in the archway between the kitchen and the hallway, she could see now that she had been wrong about that.

House seemed happy enough, his back to her, as he stood over the stove cooking something. She thought it smelled like eggs, but she couldn't be sure from this distance.

Rachel was standing next to him on her tiptoes. Thanks to her hypothyroidism, she was shorter than most children; she was definitely too short to see what House was cooking apparently. Because, her voice tight as she strained to catch a glimpse of what he was doing, she said, "I can't see."

Cuddy expected him to say something cruel to her response; it would have been his go-to reaction, she knew. But instead, for reasons Cuddy didn't understand, he simply reached down and picked Rachel up.

Well, it wasn't so much reaching down as it was wrapping one arm around her waist and hoisting her up. But Cuddy wasn't going to complain about that at _all_. Because even though this wasn't the first time House had held Rachel, Cuddy would never take such an act for granted. Maybe she should have been able to, but seeing him pick Rachel up and show her what he was cooking made Cuddy feel like she too had failed to see something in that moment.

Like she had failed to see some part of _House_.

But that thought was promptly dashed when a loud clang echoed through the silent room. A spatula hitting the stovetop was responsible for the noise, followed up by an even louder House saying, "Unless you want your friends to call you 'stubs,' stop trying to touch the pan."

Rachel started to say something, but she'd barely uttered an "I" before a sneeze prevented her from speaking any more.

House was quick to turn her away from the stove, little girl germs spraying towards the sink as he held her at arms length. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cuddy standing there, watching them, and he had never been more relieved to see her.

Turning a little further, he held Rachel out to her. "Here," he said gruffly. "Take this."

Cuddy didn't move. "She can walk, you know." When House put the kid on the floor, Cuddy said to her, "Go blow your nose and wash your hands."

He turned away from both of them then. The eggs were almost done, and though Rachel and Cuddy continued to talk for a few seconds, he didn't pay attention to either of them. Chances were Rachel, not wanting to miss any perceived fun, was putting up a fight she couldn't possibly win about having to go blow her nose.

And in the end, that must have been what they were discussing, because it was only a couple seconds before he heard Rachel scampering away and Cuddy approaching him. At least, he was _hoping_ that the person wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her face into his shoulder blades was Cuddy.

Well, okay, he would have settled for the perpetrator being Megan Fox or some blonde nineteen year old with double Ds. But in terms of who was likely to be behind him, Cuddy was his preference.

Thankfully, she was. Her lips briefly pressing into his upper back and then moving on to his neck, she whispered, "Thank you."

"I said I would feed you," he told her, slightly annoyed by the implication that he wouldn't do what he'd said. But then House realized that she might not be talking about the sandwich, and that made him shift uncomfortably on his feed and quickly say, "Roast beef and fried eggs with tomato and mayo on –"

"So you're trying to kill me," she accused lightly.

"Not yet."

He could feel her shaking her head, her nose tickling his shoulder blades through his t-shirt. "Then you've decided to give my Lipitor a run for its money because…"

Turning off the burner, House scoffed. "You can pretend like you wanted something healthier all you want, but we both know _that's_ not true. Your kid walked in on –"

"Lets not talk about that," she said, feeling her stomach clench painfully at the memory.

He reached around and squeezed her ass with a hand, as though that was going to somehow make her feel better. "My point is that this is _exactly_ what you want right now, unhealthy or not." Reaching for the plates he'd set to the side of the stove, he told her, "You can thank me later."

How he managed to make that sound so dirty, she would never know. But it was obvious that he was talking about sex.

Her response was a dry "I've thanked you enough for one day."

At that moment, Rachel skipped back into the kitchen, and House could only vaguely reply, "That will never be true."

And the subject of sex was dropped instantly with the silent understanding that both adults hadn't come to any sort of agreement on the matter. Of course, Cuddy _knew_ that no matter how long the conversation went on, she was going to lose in the end. Bet or not, she would end up having sex with him; it was just too good to say no to even if part of her was less than enthusiastic. Which was why they really didn't need to continue the conversation or, for that matter, have this stupid deal to begin with.

The ending had already written itself.

They both knew that.

Unfortunately, what neither had anticipated was the idea of sex being on someone else's brain as well.

They'd been quietly having lunch, Cuddy even going so far as to say, after taking a bite, "I changed my mind. I will marry you."

But House didn't have a chance to respond before Rachel, her cheeks and hands covered in runny egg yolk, interjected with a question no one was prepared for. "Mommy, were you making babies with House?"

The question was met with silence.

Cold, _painful_ silence that House didn't dare end. Maybe he should have said something, but he was thinking: her kid, _her_ problem. An ungentlemanly thought to be sure, but he'd already had one awful conversation with the brat today; he wasn't going to have another.

But he wasn't going to get away unscathed – that much was obvious. As he hesitantly stole a glance at Cuddy, he immediately cringed at the sight of her dark glare aimed at _him_.

Like he'd been the one to tell Rachel to ask that.

Pushing his plate away, he said slowly, "Guessing our engagement is over, huh?"

She didn't reply, but then, she didn't need to.

Her silence said it all.

_To be continued_


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Notes: Thank you, thank you, thank you to those of you who reviewed my last chapter. To TrudyGill23, huddyholic, dmarchl, MissBates, yoleah, lin12344, xxClouds, Temo, scullyschik, avid, jehabib1, Thayy, red blood, Patricia Dubose, CuttingOnions, HouseBroken, Sydney, Jane Q. Doe, Michelle, wrytingtyme, DoctorLisaCuddy, Huddyphoric, TetraFish06, lhoma320, Lennz, and tuckp3, thank you so much for taking the time to let me know how you feel about my work. I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to update, but hopefully, future chapters won't be so lengthy, and I can get post more promptly. Thanks for waiting.

_Disclaimer: I own neither House nor Screwin' for Two 2. They belong to David Shore and Steve McQueef respectively. _

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Nine: Faith**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

Maybe she should have been asking herself what the best way to handle Rachel was, but truthfully, Cuddy's reaction was to turn and glare at House. As immature as that might have been, she couldn't help but feel as though he had lied to her or worse, created this awkward situation all on his own.

He had said that Rachel had believed that awful lie he had spun. He had _said_ in as many words that the matter had been dropped. But clearly, Cuddy told herself, he had lied to make her more miserable or maybe even _told_ Rachel to ask that question to make Cuddy even more upset.

And knowing that, she wanted it to be similarly clear to him that she was definitely going to blame him for this. No, not just blame him; she wanted it to be known that she was going to _kill_ him if he was behind this.

But as she glared at him, she could see the surprise lingering in his own gaze. And she realized that he had had nothing to do with this. In fact, he looked just as taken aback by Rachel's question as she was. Which freaked Cuddy out more than she could even begin to say. If only because it meant that she would now need to come up with some sort of explanation, she suddenly felt the urge to vomit once more.

Swallowing as hard as she could, she cast her gaze on Rachel once more. Her daughter was looking at her with eyes bright with curiosity and the expectation that she would get an answer. But all Cuddy could focus on, probably the result of some internal defense mechanism, was the food all over her daughter's face and hands.

The tips of Rachel's fingers were dusted in breadcrumbs. Egg yolk painted her hands and cheeks yellow in thin streaks that were accentuated by the occasional smear of mayonnaise.

Instantly Cuddy sprung to action, seizing at the chance to give herself more time to think of a proper answer for her daughter.

"You need to wipe your face," Cuddy said in a tone that made it absolutely clear that she was going to reach across the table and clean her daughter up. Not that that stopped Rachel from squirming in her chair and whining as Cuddy reached over with her napkin and began to scrub her daughter's face clean. "Give me your hands," Cuddy said after a minute.

And though Rachel begrudgingly did, it was obvious that she didn't want to. Her lips turning downward into a frown, there was no doubting that she wasn't pleased by her mother's attempts at making her look less like a wild animal incapable of eating food nicely.

But if Cuddy had secretly hoped that that resentment would distract Rachel from her question, she was wrong. Because the second Rachel handed Cuddy a hand, she said in a singsong voice, "You didn't answer my question."

"No."

Cuddy blinked in confusion. For a brief instant, she wondered how she could speak without even opening her mouth. But then, she realized that it hadn't been her to say anything at all.

It had been House.

That fact had not been missed by Rachel.

Glaring at him, Rachel whined, "I wasn't talking to you!"

Cuddy was quick to admonish her. "_Rachel_." It felt hypocritical to do it, of course; being rude to House was a temptation she could hardly resist even on her best days. But at the same time, she knew that she couldn't let her child treat him similarly. Even if he deserved it, even if Cuddy herself rarely resisted, she had to try and set some sort of example – hypocritical or not.

"You _should_ be talking to me," House taunted, making Rachel forget all about her mother. "Cause I was the one giving you an answer."

Immediately Rachel forgot what she'd just said and ignored Cuddy completely. Her dark blue eyes training themselves on him, Rachel said, "But you said no."

He rolled his eyes. "As in we're not making babies."

Even he couldn't help but cringe at the language he was using. It was so juvenile. As it should have been since it was the phrase Rachel had used, but it just sounded bizarre coming from his own lips.

However, that barely had time to register in his mind before he realized that Cuddy was looking at him with a mixture of disgust and doubt. She was clearly accusing him of lying to Rachel, clearly telling him, though silently, that he was just making things worse.

Miffed by that fact, he couldn't help but tell her, "Maybe _you_ missed out on a couple anatomy lessons, but I'm pretty sure you can't get pregnant by –"

"Rachel," Cuddy said, clearing her throat, as she turned once more to look at her daughter. She was obviously trying to divert Rachel's attention away from him, which he wasn't entirely opposed to. "Where did you get the idea that –"

"Madison said that –"

"Who?" House asked in confusion. Apparently though this was the wrong question to ask as both Cuddy and Rachel glared at him. "What?"

Cuddy scowled. "Madison is Rachel's best friend. You've met her." When that still didn't register in his mind, she said more pointedly, "You've _also_ met her mother… whom you threw up on after Chase's bachelor party."

House couldn't decide if she was lying about that or not. But he didn't have much time to consider what she was saying before she added, "You _also_ accused her of having breast implants and –"

"I don't remember any of this," he interrupted in all seriousness.

"Because you're a pig."

House looked at her in mock disappointment. "Watch it. I made you a sandwich."

There was an unspoken threat, that he would take the sandwich away, and it did not go unnoticed by Cuddy. Instinctively pulling her plate closer to her, she told him, "You asked her to –"

She abruptly cut herself off as she remembered Rachel was sitting there, watching them. Cuddy had wanted to tell House that he had asked this complete stranger if she would be interested in having a threesome (a question he had only asked to piss the woman off – not because he actually wanted to have sex with her). But with Rachel in the room, Cuddy could only say, "_Look_ at your leg with me in the room."

His eyes widened in shock… and then in amusement at his own antics. "Still don't remember it, but if she ended up saying yes, please tell you have it on video –"

"Like I said, you're a pig," Cuddy replied smoothly. "And it's going to take much more than this sandwich to –"

"Can we talk about me?" Rachel asked in frustration.

Cuddy and House turned to look at her, as though they hadn't anticipated their squabble to be interfered with in any way. Granted, neither had forgotten that she was in the room; they'd just, and Cuddy hated herself for even thinking it, expected Rachel to wait quietly.

Clearing her throat, Cuddy decided that she would give her child the attention she so obviously wanted. "Yes," she said with a nod of the head. "You were saying…"

Rachel gave them both a dirty look but continued with her story nevertheless. "Madison said that she walked in on her parents doing funny stuff on their bed, and they told her they was makin' babies, so I thought –"

"And as usual, that was your first mistake," House interrupted callously.

"_House_." Cuddy gave him what felt like the thousandth glare she'd aimed his way today. There was no doubt in her mind that he'd deserved every single one of those facial expressions, but at the same time, it still felt like they kept ending up at the same place over and over again.

And there was a reason why that was. Though he was a fifty-five year old man, he acted like a child – an insolent, hurtful little _brat_ who _kept_ making things worse by saying things that no actual child needed to hear.

"Either be nice or _go away_," she warned him in a lethal tone. Not even giving him a moment to respond, she turned her attention back to Rachel. "We weren't making a child. _That_… is something different."

Sure, it was a lie, one that House had created, but since he had done that, Cuddy felt trapped by it. As much as she had originally wanted to tell Rachel the truth, now that a lie had been set, Cuddy didn't feel that it would do any good to tell her the truth at this point. That would just confuse her further, and like House had thought…

_Technically_, they had_ not _been trying to have a child or doing something that _could_ create a child. So it wasn't _really_ a lie, she told herself. And even if it was, she was just going to blame House for all of it anyway, so it didn't exactly matter.

But Rachel didn't seem to have any trouble believing her; House's lie had apparently been good enough to carry over – even _after_ Rachel had remembered what her best friend had said. And yet… that didn't stop her from asking, "Are you going to have babies together?"

Without even considering it, Cuddy said, at the same time as House did, "No."

They had never talked about more children. Though they probably should have, Cuddy couldn't deny that they had a habit of avoiding conversations that could potentially destroy them until _not_ talking about that thing threatened to unravel their relationship more quickly. In this particular case, when it came to babies, she never asked House, because she knew how he felt. And if he didn't ask her about it, she could only assume that he was terrified as to what _her_ answer might be.

So she could only imagine how relieved he must have been at that moment.

What she hadn't anticipated was Rachel reacting to this news with… _disapproval_.

And almost as though she _needed_ to know that she would have a sibling, Rachel asked leadingly, "But I'm gonna have one soon, right?"

"No," House answered, elongating the single word for several seconds. Now knowing that Cuddy herself didn't want kids, he obviously had no problem demonstrating for everyone in the room just how opposed to the idea he was.

But Rachel just ignored him. Her eyes imploring Cuddy to say something different, Rachel asked quietly, "Mama?"

She undoubtedly wanted Cuddy to reassure her that there would be brothers and sisters. There was no question in Cuddy's mind that that was what was being asked of her. But there was also no question as to how she was going to respond.

She didn't _want_ to tell Rachel no. She didn't particularly _want _to crush that apparent dream of her daughter's.

Yet…

Cuddy knew she couldn't lie, not about _this_, and it would be wrong to give her daughter hope for something that would never happen.

"Sorry, baby," she said in a quiet voice that she hoped would lighten the blow. "It's just going to be you."

She was trying to be kind – as kind as one could be about things like this.

But it didn't work.

As soon as the last word had been uttered, Rachel took off running.

"Rachel!"

But no amount of trying to call her back worked, leaving Cuddy to wonder what the hell had just happened. A quick glance at House told her that he didn't know… or care; he was too busy munching on some potato chips to concern himself with what had just happened.

Cuddy scowled at him. "You are completely useless," she complained half-heartedly, feeling the insult just enough to say it but not enough to hurl it with the necessary conviction. And because of that, he didn't even look up at her, didn't even dignify her with a reaction.

Later on, looking back at it, she would be able to see that that had been the best way to defuse the situation. But at the moment, it just made her growl and walk away, her feet stomping in much the same manner as Rachel had.

Was it childish? Sure. Cuddy could see that much. But at that point, she was too concerned with finding Rachel and dealing with _that_ to care about the impression she was giving House. Not that she ever really cared about that these days, of course, but she _really_ couldn't have cared less in that moment.

All that mattered for the time being was finding Rachel and smoothing things over.

For the life of her, Cuddy couldn't understand why the news that Rachel would be an only child was getting such a huge reaction. Okay, fine, Rachel wanted a brother or sister. But just hearing that it wouldn't happen shouldn't have been enough to have her sprint towards her room.

And yet it had, and Cuddy wanted to know why – _needed_ to know why.

However, Rachel was clearly in no mood to cooperate. That fact became more than apparent the second Cuddy entered her daughter's bedroom.

Rachel was lying on top of the giant stuffed giraffe in the room. Her arms around its neck, she looked like she was trying to ride the thing. But there was no mistaking her behavior for play; her face was too sad for that. And her words – "I not talkin' to you _never"_ – were too angry for that.

For a brief moment, Cuddy flinched at her daughter's syntax. It was getting better with age, but there were still too many moments where Rachel would say things that sounded absolutely awful. And the worst part about that was that Rachel only talked this way when she was incredibly upset or scared, making correcting her nothing short of cruel.

Knowing that, Cuddy bit her tongue and sank to her knees. Now eye level with Rachel, Cuddy could see even more clearly the hurt in her daughter's eyes. But for the life of her, Cuddy didn't understand why.

Reaching out, she gently rubbed Rachel's back and decided to get some answers.

But that was easier said than done.

Cuddy opened her mouth but abruptly closed it once more. Without any idea of what was bothering Rachel, she had no idea what to say. And so, she fumbled when she said, "Well… you could do that – although I would be _very_ lonely if you didn't talk to me ever again."

Rachel didn't respond, perhaps proving just how committed she was to the silent treatment.

Sighing Cuddy tried again. "Baby… I know that you're… mad at Mommy, but… I don't really know why." She frowned a little before shaking her head. "I want things to be okay between us. I want you to be happy. But if you don't talk to me, I can't make any of this better, Rachel." Gently brushing the hair out of her daughter's face, Cuddy asked, "Will you please tell me what's wrong?"

Reluctantly Rachel nodded her head. Almost as though she weren't sure she could trust what her mother was saying, almost as though she knew that nothing she said would give her a brother or sister, she was visibly hesitating.

But in the end, Rachel must have felt that talking to her mother was the best thing to do; what her reasons were, Cuddy didn't know, but there must have been _some_ reason that seemed convincing enough for Rachel to speak, because after a long period of silence, she mumbled, "You hafta have more babies."

Cuddy fought the urge to say, "I don't _have_ to do anything." She definitely wanted to say it, regardless of how immature it was. Yet she knew that that wouldn't get her anywhere with Rachel. If anything, saying _that_ would just make her daughter clam up even more. So instead, Cuddy said as tactfully as she could, "I didn't realize you wanted a brother or sister so –"

"I want brothers _and_ sisters," Rachel interrupted, sitting up on the giant stuffed giraffe.

The fact that she had said brothers and sisters – as in _multiple_ siblings – was not lost on Cuddy. Though, for the life of her, she wished she hadn't heard it, there was no pretending that she hadn't been paying attention. Standing up, Cuddy knew that she had to maturely address the situation.

"Brothers and sisters?" she asked lightly. "I don't know about that," she said, reaching for Rachel and pulling her off of the large stuffed animal.

It wasn't easy to pick her daughter up, and it was harder still to resist the urge to say what a big girl Rachel was becoming. For Cuddy, the issue wasn't about the exact number of pounds Rachel weighed; it was the simple fact that she was no longer a baby, no longer even a _toddler_. Weight aside, Rachel's legs and arms were longer, and not exactly tall herself, Cuddy found it hard to contain her daughter these days.

But Cuddy knew she couldn't say anything. For Rachel, "big" unfortunately meant one thing and one thing only:

Fat.

Though it had taken Cuddy at least until middle school to understand that big usually meant fat, for Rachel, that time had already come. And even as Cuddy tried her best to steer her daughter's weight to a healthier number, she had no intention of ever saying anything that would _ever_ make Rachel think she was criticizing her or making fun of her.

That would _never_ happen.

So Cuddy kept her mouth shut as she carried Rachel in her arms.

Well, all right, that wasn't exactly true. As she walked them both over to the rocking chair she'd used to sit with Rachel in when Rachel had been just a baby, Cuddy did say, "I'm pretty sure brothers _and_ sisters would make House's head explode."

Rachel laughed. "That's not a bad thing," she said with a giggle, as Cuddy sat down in the chair.

"That's not very nice, Rachel."

"Sorry." But Cuddy didn't think she sounded all that apologetic.

On the other hand, dealing with House and Rachel's relationship was hardly a simple task, one that Cuddy wasn't going to make better overnight (no matter how much she wished that to be the case). And so she couldn't help but think that maybe it would be smarter to tackle a topic she _could_ resolve quickly.

How family planning became the _easy_ conversation to have, she didn't know. But at this point, there was no denying that it would be easier. Besides, it had been the reason she'd chased after Rachel to begin with.

So she let the comment about House slide… for now. And instead, she tried to steer Rachel back to the topic of children. "Well… if I'm supposed to convince him that we need to have more children, then I'm going to need reasons. Which means I need to know why it's important to _you_ that we do that."

As far as changing the subject, this was about as transparent as it went. But seeing as how this was _Rachel_, subtlety wasn't exactly necessary.

Indeed, she easily forgot what she'd been saying about House and repeated herself by whining, "You hafta have more babies."

"_Why_?" Cuddy was trying hard not to lose her temper, but it wasn't exactly easy.

"Because."

"Rachel, that's not an answer."

"Cause I want them."

"That's not an answer either."

Rachel hesitated to speak at that moment, and Cuddy couldn't think that it was by chance that that had happened. Clearly there was something going on right now that she didn't understand, something that Rachel didn't want to tell her. Which meant that this was more than likely all the product of something Cuddy herself didn't _want _to know.

But of course, it was also something she was doomed to find out about.

Chagrined Cuddy tried once more. As she reached forward and brushed a long strand of dark hair out of Rachel's face, she said, "You know, we've never talked about having siblings. You've never asked, so you and I… we've never really said anything about it." Rubbing Rachel's back with the warm palm of her hand, Cuddy added, "Maybe it's normal for you to want a brother or sister –"

"I want _both_, Mommy."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I got that." Sensing that she was losing control, she cleared her throat and shook her head. She needed to be nice and calm, she reminded herself. "But if there's something going on, something you _need_ to tell me, I want to know it. I… want to know why you want siblings. I need to, Rachel."

Rachel looked downward at her belly. She would have looked down at her feet, but they were stuck underneath her butt, so she couldn't see them. And it didn't really matter what she could or couldn't look at anyway, cause she was just trying to not look at Mommy, so Rachel was happy to see her tummy and would have been happy to see _anything_ – even House's butt (ewww!) if it meant not lookin' at Mommy's face.

Rachel didn't really know why she needed to look away, but she did. She had to. She could feel it in her belly that she had to look away.

Not that it was gonna stop Mommy from wanting an answer. Rachel wasn't _that_ dumb. She just didn't want to look at Mommy while she answered the question.

"I just wanna be a big sister," she said, even though that wasn't the truth.

Mommy must have known this instantly, cause she asked, "Are you lying to me?"

Rachel fought the urge to say yes. When Mommy asked are you lying, it was always, always, _always_ a trap. And if you said yes, it never ended good, cause you were in trouble. And Rachel didn't want to be in trouble, so she didn't say yes. "No."

"Rachel."

She knew. Rachel shifted on Mommy's lap, knowing that she was in trouble – or going to be in trouble if she kept lying. But she couldn't tell the truth _now_… right?

"Not lying."

Cuddy looked at Rachel carefully. There was no doubt in her mind that her daughter was withholding something. Mother's intuition aside, she'd been with House, known him way too long to _not_ know when she was being lied to. And it drove her nuts when Rachel lied to her, because Rachel was so _bad_ at lying that it almost seemed like an affront to Cuddy's intelligence to hear something so incredibly ill thought out.

Of course, Rachel didn't exactly have the capacity to tell a good lie. Cuddy understood that much. But she also felt that her daughter _did _have the ability to understand that she couldn't tell good lies and would therefore realize that she _shouldn't_ do it.

Apparently though, that thought had yet to dawn on Rachel.

"I want you to tell me the truth. _Now_," Cuddy ordered, sick of giving her daughter chance after chance to lie.

"But I _am_ telling the –"

"That's four times, Rachel," Cuddy interrupted in displeasure. "Do it again and you're going to spend some time in time out."

Rachel looked up at her with hurt infused in every feature. And looking at her daughter, Cuddy couldn't help but feel that she was blackmailing her child for information. No one else would see it that way (they would hopefully see it as _parenting_), and Rachel surely wouldn't; she didn't understand what that word meant. But nevertheless she was visibly upset by the punishment looming over her. And _that_ made Cuddy feel just as awful.

The fact that Rachel sagged in defeat didn't make her feel any better. Actually, truth be told, it made Cuddy feel even worse. She'd wanted results, but victory gave her no pleasure.

Especially not when Rachel _finally_ explained, "Madison's getting another brother soon. She says I don't have none cause I'm sick and you don't want another baby who's annoying and stupid like me."

Cuddy was stunned into silence.

The need to speak was so consuming that she felt as though each quiet second bore down on her heart so heavily that she feared the muscle would stop beating. And yet, she didn't know how to speak, didn't know if her body could physically alter itself to allow words to form. She was too shocked by what Rachel was telling her.

She was too shocked and _disgusted_ by it, by the idea that little Madison Reynolds could have said such awful things.

Oh, Cuddy didn't doubt that all of this had occurred. Being an awful liar, Rachel didn't have the capacity to come up with something so heinous. And perhaps this was wishful thinking, but Cuddy hoped that Rachel didn't have the ability to consider herself a burden, to think that she was unwanted or disappointing in any way. Just the idea that Rachel was lying about Madison was too much for Cuddy to ever pay lip service too – and out of self-preservation, she had to believe that Rachel was telling the truth.

Which just made the entire situation that much more unbearable.

Speechless and feeling not just a little sick to her stomach, Cuddy pulled Rachel forward. It was rough, Rachel's little body jerking abruptly as Cuddy messily enfolded her into her arms, but Cuddy couldn't help but give into the need to bring her child as close as possible.

Instinctively Rachel laid her head down on Cuddy's chest. And for a brief moment, they were both seemingly content to stay that way, their arms thrown around one another, the rocking chair gently creaking as it swayed back and forth.

But Cuddy knew that this alone wouldn't be enough. Not for her, not for Rachel – or anyone else in this position – and Cuddy wanted to leave no doubt in her daughter's mind what the truth was.

Slowly, she moved her hands to Rachel's face, cupping the little girl's chubby cheeks with the much larger palms of Cuddy's own hands. "Look at me," she ordered in a soft tone. "Come on," she said gently when she noticed Rachel's reluctance.

When Rachel finally did look up, Cuddy told her in a voice so sure that she hoped it left no doubt within Rachel:

"I love you."

Cuddy kissed her forehead before repeating, "I love you. More than _anything, _Rachel. I know you think that I'm angry right now because of the things you broke earlier."

At that Rachel frowned and looked away guiltily. And Cuddy had to use her hands to force Rachel to look at her once more. "Listen to me. I'm not mad. I'm _really_ not."

Rachel uttered a meek "Okay."

"I mean it. I love you. And that doesn't change." Again Cuddy kissed her. "And it doesn't matter that you're not as…"

She closed her mouth as she tried to figure out how she wanted to finish the sentence. The truth was she didn't know what she wanted to say. All she knew was what she couldn't say.

She could not say, "It doesn't matter that you're not as healthy as other kids." She could not say, "It doesn't matter that you're not as smart as the other kids in your class." She couldn't compare Rachel to anyone else in any way.

And Cuddy didn't want to.

Whatever Rachel's problems were, Cuddy never really thought of them in terms of what other children were doing or experiencing. If she hated that Rachel had diabetes, it was because _Rachel_ suffered – not because it was a pain to manage. And if Cuddy was less than pleased at Rachel's progress in school, contrary to what House believed, it was _not_ because Cuddy expected her daughter to be a genius. No one, she thought, could reasonably demand that of their child, and Cuddy certainly didn't. All Cuddy had ever really wanted was for Rachel to… realize the potential locked in that tiny body – as cliché as that was. And for Cuddy, making that happen meant pushing her daughter every now and then, which admittedly might have made it seem like Cuddy was comparing Rachel to the other children.

But truthfully, Cuddy wasn't, didn't, and never had.

And if the other children were as vile as Madison seemed to be, then no comparison would ever need to be made, because Rachel would always be in Cuddy's eyes the clear victor.

So with that in mind, Cuddy realized that what she'd been starting to say was not at all what she wanted Rachel to hear. And shaking her head, she decided to completely start over. She didn't want Rachel to doubt in any way her sincerity.

"It doesn't matter that you're sick. None of that matters, Rachel," she said slowly. "If House and I don't want any more children… that's got _nothing_ to do with you."

Rachel nodded her head in understanding slowly. But she said nothing, and that made Cuddy feel the urge to talk more.

"I promise you: it's not about you. At all," she emphasized in a louder voice. "_You_ are… everything I could have ever wanted in a baby." Rachel smiled a little. "I couldn't have had a better daughter. I mean that. I can't imagine having anyone else."

Cocking her head to the side, Cuddy couldn't help but admit however, "But any more kids and… it just wouldn't work, Rachel. House and I are… _really _busy people," she said with a stern nod of her head. After all, it was the truth. "And, we're not as young as most parents are – we're not young enough to chase after babies."

It was undoubtedly a short version of the truth. Clearly, they were busy people. Clearly, they were not young. But those were only small parts of the equation. They were very small parts compared to the other issues that made Cuddy hesitant to pursue more children. Hell, they didn't even exist when compared to the fact that House would _never _want a baby, to the fact that, even if he did, physically they probably couldn't, and to the fact that no one would ever allow them to adopt a child together.

Actually, now that she was allowing herself to think about it, when it came to having more children, House's reluctance hardly mattered at all. In fact all of the reasons they _shouldn't_ have a child were nothing when juxtaposed to all of the reasons they _couldn't_ have one. Because even if she could find the time to have another baby in her life, even if she could convince House that another baby would be okay, at the end of the day… they still wouldn't have another child.

Part of her hated even thinking it, but she knew it was true. Her age made getting pregnant nearly if not completely impossible. She wasn't menopausal; she wasn't even experiencing the symptoms of perimenopause, which she would have expected given her age. But that didn't matter. Statistically the eggs of women her age were unviable; the chances of her having a full-term pregnancy were slim; the chances of the child who _did_ survive a pregnancy having some sort of medical complication were great. IVF could have increased her ability to get pregnant, but it couldn't erase all of the potential complications she would face. And between the likelihood of needing someone else's eggs or womb and the likelihood that something would be wrong with the baby, Cuddy didn't feel as though it was worth going down the road of trying to have a biological child.

It would be too painful.

But then adopting another baby wouldn't be any better; she knew that much. Again, House would be an obstacle here – both in his unwillingness to go along with it and in their ability to get approved with him in the equation.

That made it sound like she thought he was an awful person when she actually didn't. Truly, it sounded awful, even in her own mind. But she understood, having gone through the process, that social workers and pregnant teenagers would _not_ like him. Cuddy felt as though she'd barely been able to convince anyone that _she_ was a good parent; there was no way _he_ would be able to kiss enough ass, no chance of his better qualities outshining the ones that everyone seemed to notice first and foremost.

They would see that he was a drug addict (clean but an addict nonetheless). They would see that he had a history of mental illness.

They would hear him open his mouth and say something offensive.

And that would be that. There would be no adoption.

And if that were to happen… if he were the one to ruin her only chance at giving Rachel a sibling…

Cuddy knew she would never be able to forgive him.

And if they were to be approved, if they were to get a child, if the biological parents were to change their minds…

It would destroy Cuddy.

She'd done it before, experienced the pain of losing a child – both in her womb and in her arms – and she couldn't do that again. Maybe she was supposed to feel as though Rachel was a safety net of sorts, an incarnation of hope to keep her going, but for Cuddy, at the end of the day, if Rachel symbolized anything, Cuddy felt that it was everything she would be missing when she lost that child. Rachel would be a reminder of everything Cuddy _didn't_ have if they were to go down this route.

And she couldn't take the risk of going through that again. Though she kept all of this from Rachel, it was the first thing in Cuddy's mind, constituted her entire reason for saying no to more children.

Still, what she _had_ told Rachel seemed convincing enough. Because at that moment, unaware of what her mother was thinking, Rachel said, "Okay, Mommy."

Cuddy looked at her to see if she was telling the truth. "You sure?" There seemed to be something lingering in Rachel's eyes that Cuddy couldn't help but think looked like doubt.

But Rachel nodded her head. "Yup."

That wasn't the end of the conversation, however. Cuddy wanted it to be, but it certainly could _not_ be, because Rachel suddenly asked, her words showing just how innocent she was, "Why would Madison say that if it's not true?"

How Cuddy wanted to answer the question was not appropriate for Rachel's ears. The things she wanted to say, though something Madison's mother would inevitably learn, were things Rachel shouldn't be exposed to – Cuddy was aware of that much.

So she was forced to utter instead the phrase she hated when anyone said it to her. "Everybody lies."

Rachel was clearly unimpressed with that little tidbit. Not placated in the least, she kept looking at her mother for a better answer.

But the truth was Cuddy didn't really have one. Even though she rationally understood why people lied, it was still hard to… appreciate that fact when you were the one being lied to. And it was going to be even harder to get Rachel to understand that.

Knowing that, Cuddy realized that she had to elaborate. "Rachel… sometimes, people say things that they know aren't true, because they're… upset about something… or, or _angry_."

She was tempted to joke, "Just look at how House and Mommy behave when they're fighting," but didn't. Hardly unaware of just how true those words would really be, Cuddy couldn't find it within herself to say that; it wouldn't be amusing, and saying it would only call attention to the dynamic she could best describe as dysfunctional on good days.

And since that was the case, she could only say, "I don't know why Madison said those things, baby. Maybe she was sad that she was going to have another brother and saying something about how you don't have any brothers and sisters was her way of trying to make herself feel better." She shrugged. "I really don't know."

It was the truth… a truth that Rachel couldn't exactly appreciate. Though she was at that age where she was beginning to realize that her mother didn't know everything, Rachel still looked at her for all of the answers. Cuddy couldn't really fault her daughter for this as she would have liked to have been able to give her daughter all of the answers.

But lacking that quality, she stroked Rachel's cheek with her thumb and said, "What I _do_ know is that nobody can tell you how_ I_ feel besides me. For sure, _Madison_ has no idea how I feel about you."

"Yeah." The word was just barely audible though, making it impossible for Cuddy to tell if Rachel actually meant what she was saying.

"You believe me?"

Rachel nodded her head. "Uh huh."

To Cuddy's trained ears, she sounded as though she were telling the truth. She _sounded _convinced. But at the same time, it was impossible to deny the effect Madison's words had had on Rachel. Because even though she seemed okay, even though she nodded her head when Cuddy suggested they finish lunch, Rachel still did not act like herself.

The second Cuddy tried to ease Rachel off her lap, the little girl whined. Practically sobbing out a loud "No," she clung to her mother with an almost bruising force. Her head was pressed into Cuddy's chest, arms wrapped around her neck so tightly that it pulled uncomfortably on Cuddy's curls.

Of course, this wasn't exactly a new predicament.

On the best of days, Rachel had always been a clingy child. Well, all right, not _always_; having been abandoned by her biological mother and then taken from the homeless couple who had somehow managed to keep her alive, Rachel had been understandably (though it hadn't felt that way at the time) hesitant to bond with anyone and even less eager to accept all of the things other babies her age were familiar with.

At the time, nothing had made her happy. Nothing had made her enjoy simply being held by her mother. And how they'd ever managed to get beyond that, especially when Cuddy had gone back to work so quickly, she never really knew. But the fact of the matter was that they _had_ gotten past that. For whatever reason, they had, and since that point, Rachel had been a mommy's girl in every sense of the word.

And though Cuddy couldn't find it in herself to _complain_ about that fact, there was no denying that it was inconvenient at times. Like, for example, when she would be ten minutes late for work and Rachel would latch onto her leg and practically beg her not to leave - _then_ it was less than wonderful. But for the most part, Cuddy was willing to indulge her daughter.

And after Marina's death, Cuddy had had to do that. Sure, at some point, she would probably have to push Rachel to be more independent, but that certainly wasn't going to happen right _now_. Cuddy had resigned herself to that fact, deciding to patiently wait Rachel out.

But now thanks to Madison, it seemed like it would take Rachel even longer to accept that her mother wasn't going anywhere. And as Cuddy stood up, Rachel in her arms, she couldn't help but lament that fact.

It wasn't the inconvenience that bothered her the most. Actually, the more she thought about it, the less she cared about how awful it was going to be to drop Rachel off at school on Monday morning and the more she understood that Rachel's clinginess bothered her on a more fundamental level. It made Cuddy think that, underneath it all, Rachel was still that same little girl who didn't trust that the love and attention she received today would be there tomorrow.

It didn't seem to matter that Cuddy had been there for five years. It didn't seem to matter how often she said, "I love you." Almost as though the fear of abandonment had been etched into her genes, some part of Rachel seemed incapable of accepting the truth Cuddy was desperate to show her daughter.

And though it broke Cuddy's heart to admit that there might… never be a time where that message completely seeped into Rachel's subconscious…

It was the truth.

The way things were now might be the way they would be for the rest of their lives.

Obviously, Cuddy didn't want to live the rest of her life knowing that her daughter was never _fully_ convinced that she loved her. But it was impossible to deny that the possibility existed, just as it was impossible to pretend as though Madison's words hadn't taken their toll on Rachel. They clearly had. And now the only option Cuddy had was to deal with the ramifications as sensitively as she could.

Of course, that was easier said than done. Having lived with House for this long, she was familiar with how hard it could be to reassure someone of something they were so reluctant to believe. Although common belief dictated that he was a jackass, she had found him in truth to be inexplicably fragile. He wouldn't appreciate being described as such naturally, but she knew it was true. As cocky and rude and childish as he could be, there was also a well of vulnerability that ran through him, which frequently upset the balance they worked hard to maintain. And when that happened, when a patient died or they had had a particularly long, drawn out argument, it took effort (and quite a bit of it) to bring him back from that.

True, this was different. House had more demons than an exorcism, and he'd had plenty of time to let them fester inside of him and transform him. Rachel, on the other hand, was still young, was still malleable and open. And maybe in the end, that would make things easier for Cuddy.

But it still wouldn't be easy.

And yet failure (or throwing in the towel over the fear of failure) was obviously _not_ an option. So she could only try and reassure Rachel that she was loved _very_ much.

As Cuddy walked them both back to the kitchen table, she murmured into Rachel's hair, "I love you."

Rachel repeated the words back to her, but the "I love you" was lost for Cuddy. Because it was at that precise moment, as Cuddy carried her daughter into the kitchen, that she realized: House was gone.

His dirty dish was on the table, proof that he had been there earlier. But he was nowhere to be seen. To be honest, she suspected that this was a good thing; anything that took time away from Rachel at the moment was something Cuddy wanted to avoid. Not that House was a distraction, she told herself. He wasn't. He was just… not allowed to be her top priority right now.

Sitting down at the table once more (with Rachel, who refused to sit in her seat, in Cuddy's lap), she ordered, "Finish your lunch."

"I don't wanna," she mumbled, trying (and failing) to push away the plate Cuddy had put in front of her.

"Just a couple more bites, and then you'll be done."

Rachel sighed miserably but reached for her food. For her part, Cuddy hated making Rachel clean her plate; in Cuddy's own childhood, that rule had been the one she'd never wanted to pass down to her children. But in this case, it simply had to be done.

For her health, Rachel needed to eat what was in front of her. Other children could afford the luxury of skipping meals or eating only the items on the plate they liked, but if Rachel were to do that, she could get very sick. And since it was impractical for Cuddy (or anyone else) to make Rachel whatever she wanted, forcing her to eat the food she'd been served was Cuddy's only option. So it was with relief that she watched Rachel finish her sandwich.

Taking a few more bites of her own lunch, Cuddy silently planned out the rest of her day in her head. Between work and her deal with House, it felt as though she'd accomplished _nothing_ today.

After all, it was past lunchtime; on any other weekend, she would have already done a load or two of laundry to lessen the workload of the housekeeper who had had much more to do since Marina's death. And granted, this weekend was a little different, seeing as how Rachel had had her recital and tonight would be Purim, but still.

She felt far behind.

And it was then that she remembered that it _was_ Purim (well, it was tonight, anyway).

There'd been, thanks to her agreement with House, reminders of it all day, but none of that had had anything to do with the actual holiday. And now that she _was_ thinking about it, she thought of all the things she'd originally planned on doing today.

Glancing at the clock, Cuddy supposed she'd have time to do a few of the things she'd wanted to do with Rachel.

In the very least, Cuddy felt that it was important to try. Although she couldn't even begin to pretend to be a good Jew, though she didn't even really identify as one _religiously_, she _did_ want to pass on all of the traditions she'd been brought up with to Rachel. For reasons she didn't even understand, Cuddy wanted Rachel to know all of the things her ancestors had gone through to survive.

And in all honesty, she didn't want to shortchange any of the things she used to do to celebrate Purim. Now that the holiday was quickly approaching, Cuddy knew that they would need to get started _soon_ if she hoped of teaching Rachel anything.

"I'm done," Rachel announced proudly.

Cuddy glanced down at her daughter and smiled weakly. "Yes, you are. That's a good girl."

"But you're _not_ done."

"You're right." Cuddy hated to admit it, but there was no denying that there was still a good portion of her sandwich left to eat. And this was the part she detested about making Rachel clean her plate the most: Cuddy had to be the one to set a good example.

Sighing, she picked her food up. As she ate some more, she asked Rachel, "Do you know what today is?"

"Uh…" Rachel squirmed in her lap as she tried to think. "Saturday?"

Cuddy started to say no but quickly realized that it was indeed Saturday. "Well, yes, but I mean do you know what holiday starts tonight?"

"Um…." Rachel's tiny nose scrunched up in confusion. "No."

After forcing herself to finish the last of her sandwich, Cuddy said, "Do you know what Purim is? Do you remember?"

Rachel accidentally kicked her as she swung her legs back in forth in thought. "That's the stuff that's like oatmeal. I like oatmeal. Not when you make it but –"

"That's porridge. And there's nothing wrong with my oatmeal." Rachel didn't bother to correct her; the disgusted look on her face was enough of a response for Cuddy. "Anyway, _Purim_ is a holiday we celebrate every year to –"

"We didn't celebrate it last year," Rachel pointed out.

Cuddy shook her head. "Yes, we did." But since House had been in Atlantic City with Wilson, she hadn't exactly put her heart into the celebration. She'd wanted to, of course, but _her_ lover had been in stripper, prostitute, lonely housewife, and perky collegiate-looking-for-a-good-time central, so her mind had been on other things at the time.

"I don't remember that."

Slowly, she carded Rachel's long hair. "Well, a lot has happened since then. It's okay." As she peppered her daughter's temple with kisses, she explained, "So… like I was saying, tonight Purim starts. And every year, Jewish people, like you and me and Nana and Aunt Julia –"

"Does Mom-Mom celebrate it?" Rachel asked curiously.

Cuddy shook her head. "No. She and House aren't Jewish." She resisted the urge to tell Rachel that House celebrated the devil. "Just my side of the family celebrates it, because Purim is all about remembering one of the _many_ times someone tried to get rid of all of the Jews."

For a brief moment, she prepared herself for Rachel to ask why that had happened, why anyone would want to destroy an entire group of people. It would have been – it _had_ been what Cuddy had asked decades ago. But Rachel didn't ask the question no rational person could have an answer for. That just wasn't who she was.

What she did ask was, "So what do we do?"

"We… have fun. We have parties, and we eat lots of good food, make cookies and –"

"Cookies?" Rachel could barely contain her excitement. Though she was making sure she'd heard her mother correctly, it was impossible to miss the way her voice wavered with giddiness.

"Uh huh. We make hamantaschen to –"

"They're cookies?"

"Yes."

"And we're gonna make dem?"

Cuddy nodded her head. Although her day had basically been shot to hell, this was one of the few events that she'd planned far in advance. Having needed to purchase the ingredients to make cookies that were low in sugar, she had decided a long time ago to bake – and regardless of how many times work or House would decide to _screw her_ today, she was going to make the damn cookies.

"Yes," she said sweetly. "We're going to make some cookies as soon as I clean up the dishes from lunch."

Rachel grinned. "And we're gonna eat dem?"

"I hope so." Although she could cook, she was not assured in her abilities as to assume automatically that baking with Rachel, especially if Rachel insisted on being held the entire time, would turn out well. "But if we're going to make cookies, I'm going to need both of my hands… which means I can't carry you."

Rachel understood what Cuddy was trying to say; she clearly didn't _like_ what she was being told, but she understood. And though Cuddy was absolutely sure Rachel would choose her over the cookies…

Apparently, cookies were a big motivator, because it barely took Rachel more than a second to nod her head in agreement. "Okay."

But it wasn't really that simple. Even though Rachel didn't complain about being set on her feet, she still made a point of being as close to Cuddy as she could get. At first, she merely followed Cuddy to the sink. Then, as Cuddy began to wash the dishes, Rachel hugged her mother's leg.

And then boredom must have set in. Seeing as how House hadn't washed any of the utensils, plates, or pans he'd used, this wasn't a quick chore that was going to last only a few seconds. Too impatient to be understanding, Rachel was too eager to make cookies or do _something_ to appreciate that this wasn't going to be done quickly.

Rachel suddenly pulling away, Cuddy thought for a moment that Rachel was simply too bored to shadow her any longer. And maybe for a brief second, that was true. Rachel moved a few feet away from her and started to do twirls around the kitchen. Cuddy was willing to ignore her – even as Rachel started to sing "The Trolley Song" off-key as she did so – until the little girl twirled right into one of the countertops.

She fell down and hit the floor with a loud thud. Cuddy tensed with anticipation. As she stopped doing the dishes, she waited to see how Rachel was going to react to her accident. If she were to cry, Cuddy knew she would need to be ready. But as she looked over her shoulder, she was relieved to see Rachel sitting on the floor with a smile on her face.

"Oops."

"I guess so," Cuddy agreed.

"Are you_ done_ yet? I want cookies," Rachel whined.

"Just a few more minutes."

Disappointed Rachel stood back up. She spread her arms wide at her sides. Obviously she was getting ready to spin some more.

But Cuddy was quick to say, "Maybe we shouldn't twirl in the kitchen, okay? You don't want to fall down again, do you?"

Rachel might not have been the _smartest_ child in the world, but she was clearly more than intelligent enough to know that Cuddy wasn't making a suggestion.

"Fine," she grumbled.

Cuddy could hear feet stomping on the floor in defeat, but she didn't really care about that. As long as she didn't have to worry about Rachel getting hurt, she was content. But as was often the case in this house, the feeling didn't last long.

She'd just started washing dishes again when she felt it – something bump into her ass.

Instantly she stilled.

Surprise coursing through her veins like the soapy water was over the dish in her hands, it took her a few seconds to process what was going on. But when it happened again, when she felt whatever it was bump into her once more, she forced herself to put her shock aside and think about the matter rationally.

Without even looking, she could tell that it wasn't House. Which was odd, because when it came to phenomena involving her ass, House was the cause fairly often. In fact, she couldn't even remember the last time something happened to her ass that didn't originate with House.

But this clearly wasn't him.

House was rough, _possessive. _He liked to grab and squeeze, pinch and spank and, if he were really in the mood, bite. He did not casually bump. And even if he did, by now, he would have made his presence known in other ways. But that hadn't happened, so it wasn't _House_ behind her.

That just left Rachel.

As she felt another bump, this one hard enough to shove her pelvis into the counter in front of her, Cuddy asked, "Rachel, what are you doing?"

"Nothing."

Cuddy turned off the faucet. "That right there," she said when she felt that sensation once more. "That's not nothing."

"I'm banging my head into your butt."

Cuddy's mouth opened in confusion of its own volition. What the hell was she supposed to do with that kind of an answer?

Clearing her throat, she asked hesitantly, "Why?"

"Cause it's fun." Rachel did it a few more times.

"_Why_?"

"I don't know," Rachel admitted in a cheery voice. "It's just fun. Your butt is bouncy."

Instinctively Cuddy braced for House to come out of nowhere and say something lewd. He had the habit of popping around corners when he wasn't wanted. But thankfully that never happened. And instead, she was able to concentrate on forming some kind of response to her daughter's _bizarre_ behavior. "I… I don't even know what to say to that."

What she did know, however, was that she wanted it to stop. As Rachel lifted her head to bump her mother again, Cuddy spun around as quickly as she could. "But let's not do that anymore, all right?"

"But it's fun."

"Well, I don't like it."

"But –"

"I'm not a jungle gym, monkey." Again she waited for House to pop up out of nowhere and say something best described as offensive.

But the only person who spoke was Rachel. "Well, _I'm_ not a monkey."

"You're bouncing your head off my bottom like it's a trampoline for your face."

"Do monkeys do that?"

Cuddy sighed and turned back to the dishes. "I don't know. House probably does, but –" Her train of thought was abruptly lost as Rachel, presumably in search of House, started to leave the room. "Get back here."

"Are we gonna make the cookies?" she asked miserably. "'Cause I'm bored."

"I got that."

"So…." Resting her chin on Cuddy's hip, Rachel looked up Cuddy. "Can we make cookies now?"

Cuddy looked down at the couple of dishes still in the sink. Truthfully, they could wait. And if only to shut Rachel up, maybe it was better _to_ let them sit for a while. But at the same time, Cuddy knew that baking cookies would only yield more dishes. And it would be nice to have an empty sink to place all of the bowls and utensils from the cookies in. _And_ it was important for Rachel to learn to wait her turn, even if teaching her that lesson was giving Cuddy a headache.

"Just a couple more dishes," she told Rachel in a strained voice. "And they'll go _much_ faster if you wait patiently like a good girl."

"But I want cookies. _Now_."

Cuddy sighed. Shaking her head, she warned, "You whine one more time, and you know _exactly_ where you're going."

Rachel pouted… but ultimately didn't say another word until Cuddy had put the last dish in the drying rack and given Rachel the medicine she usually took at lunch.

Even better, the tense moment ended (as it rarely did in this house) within seconds. In fact, by the time Cuddy was finished with the dishes, Rachel was in a considerably better mood.

As was Cuddy, it turned out, because making the hamantaschen actually ended up being far easier than she'd anticipated. The prune filling (the only kind of hamantaschen her family had made for generations) was surprisingly simple. The chopped, dried fruit placed into a pot with some orange juice to boil, that part was finished in a matter of seconds. With the only problem being Rachel whining, "These aren't cookies," Cuddy moved onto making the dough.

"The prunes are going to be the filling for the cookies," Cuddy explained as she headed towards one of the cupboards. Loudly (there was no way to avoid making noise), she pulled out a bowl and spoon and handed them to Rachel. "Take these to the table please."

"I want chocolate cookies," Rachel said in a voice that was a borderline whine. "I don't like prunes."

"Have you ever eaten prunes?"

"No."

"Then you don't know that you don't like them."

Rachel frowned and headed towards the table. "I know I like chocolate better."

Cuddy could have fought the point, but she didn't exactly feel the need to. Honestly she would have had to have been a fool to think that her daughter - or nearly any child, for that matter - would prefer dried fruit to chocolate. So to fight Rachel on the matter literally would have been to take the side of an argument she was never going to win.

But also, having experienced this with House (many, many, _many_ times), she understood that the more she insisted, the more she tried to push prunes, the more Rachel would resist, the more likely she would refuse to eat the cookies as a matter of principle.

So Cuddy remained silent as she went around the room gathering the rest of the ingredients for the cookies. Grabbing the almond meal and whole wheat flour (substitutions her grandmother would have frowned upon), she asked Rachel, "Do you know what these cookies are called?"

"Yucky cookies that look like poop," she answered, still stuck on the filling.

"No. And don't talk like that."

"Sorry." Moping Rachel plopped the bowl on the table with a clang.

Next to it Cuddy placed all of the ingredients she'd retrieved. Pulling one of the chairs out at the table, she said, "Here. Stand on top of this."

"Why?"

"So you can reach everything better. I'm going to stand behind you and help you make the hamantaschen."

Rachel looked at her blankly. "The wha?"

"Hamantaschen," Cuddy repeated slowly, emphasizing each syllable of the word so that Rachel could hear it properly. "That's what the cookies are called."

"Oh."

"Wait a minute. I need to get the recipe, make sure I got everything," she said, quickly finding it tucked away behind a grocery list on the refrigerator.

At that, Rachel must have realized that this wasn't going to be an activity that ended in ten minutes with freshly baked cookies in her mouth. Because as Cuddy was walking back, Rachel asked, "How much longer?"

"It's going to be a while."

Rachel frowned. "I want Oreos."

"That's not happening."

"But –"

"You can either help me make these cookies _or_ you can go play and not have any," Cuddy said smoothly, dumping a large, unappetizing lump of margarine into the metal bowl.

"I don't like those choices."

"Well, those are the only ones you have."

At that point, it wasn't even a question which choice she would make. Rachel was clearly going to take the option that ended with cookies in her belly, which was why it came as no surprise that she climbed up onto the kitchen chair. "Fine."

Gently Cuddy helped Rachel measure out all of the ingredients. Tiny hands inside of her larger ones, Cuddy guided Rachel to empty the measuring cups one by one into the bowl. As they did so, Cuddy asked, "Are you still upset by what Madison said?"

Rachel hesitated to respond. Whether she was embarrassed to say that it still bothered her or worried how her mother would respond, Cuddy didn't know. But it was obvious that the remark _did_ still bother her.

Cuddy, wrapping one of her arms around Rachel's waist, brought her closer to her body. "It's okay," she whispered, offering another shower of kisses as though that alone could make Rachel feel better. But clearly, it didn't do that, and Cuddy had to press on.

Picking up the spoon Rachel had placed by the bowl, she said, "I think we need to stir this now." She moved to stand next to her daughter, so that she didn't have to reach over Rachel to stir. Mixing the batter by hand, Cuddy told Rachel, "The reason these are called hamantaschen – they're named after a man. Haman."

Trying to inconspicuously dip her fingers into the bowl, Rachel said, "That's a dumb name."

"Yes… it is – don't stick your hand in the dough."

"But I want to eat it."

"There are raw eggs in it. It'll make you sick."

Rachel, not at all a stranger to illness, had to take a moment to decide if becoming _sicker_ was worth a nibble of dough. Apparently, it wasn't, because she pulled her hand back obediently after a few seconds.

"That's a good decision," Cuddy told her approvingly. "You'll enjoy a real cookie much more anyway."

Rachel seemed doubtful but said nothing, and Cuddy decided it would be best to move on. "So, _Haman_ –"

"The guy who made the cookies?"

"Well, he didn't make the cookies. They're just named after him," Cuddy muttered, clearing a space to roll the dough out. It was noisy business; pushing the containers of flour and sugar, the carton of eggs, and everything else out of the way wasn't quiet by any means. As she floured the table, she explained in a louder voice, "So Haman worked for the King of Persia, right? And one day, one of the men who worked with Haman – Mordecai –"

"Their names are funny," Rachel replied, squeezing the dough in her hands the second Cuddy turned it out on the table. "It's gooey."

"That's because it's not cooked yet." It was probably also because the dough needed to be chilled for hours – a step which Cuddy had chosen to cut out (Rachel barely had enough patience to do this much; anything longer would be disastrous). "Anyway, Mordecai insults Haman, and Haman gets _so_ angry that he thinks the best way to handle the situation is to kill Mordecai and _everyone_ like him."

Rachel was too busy rubbing her hands on her pink pants to pay much attention. Immediately upon seeing this, Cuddy reached out and grabbed her daughter's sticky fingers. At that point, it wasn't so much about the pants as it was getting her to listen to what she was being told.

"Listen to me. This is important." Rachel nodded her head to show that she was paying attention. "He didn't succeed – Haman. He wanted to kill all the Jews, but he couldn't do it. _Nobody_ has been able to do that, and believe me, Rachel, a lot of people have tried."

Cuddy reached for the rolling pin on the table. As she slathered it with flour, she said firmly, "If there's one thing you'll learn in life, it will be that there is _always_ someone out there who won't like you for… whatever reason. Because you're Jewish or a woman or… whatever. It doesn't matter. There will always be someone who doesn't like you or what you do."

Rachel gave her a look of disappointment.

"I know," Cuddy agreed. It _was_ an awful fact, one she couldn't sugarcoat, one she couldn't deny had infected and shaped a good part of her life.

Though it was changing, being a woman in medicine hadn't been – _wasn't_ – an easy fit. There had been (and was) sexism and, to a lesser extent, antisemitism aimed at her every step of the way, and even now, she couldn't deny that there were people who treated her differently because of the way she looked.

Of course, dating House hadn't done anything to stop the rumors that she'd somehow slept her way to the top. But at the same time, no one had ever been able to get her fired; her success had spoken for itself, making her usefulness undeniable.

"It's not right," Cuddy continued. "People shouldn't be that way, but they are. They judge." She set the rolling pin down and turned to face Rachel more clearly. "I know it's hard; it doesn't make you feel good, and it's easy to let what Madison said – or what anyone else will say – get to you."

She crouched down to get closer to her daughter. "But doing that?" She shook her head. "It just makes _you_ miserable."

"It's okay. I punch her when she say that," Rachel explained with a grin on her face.

Cuddy cringed. "No, don't do that, Rachel. Don't _hit_ people." Rachel opened her mouth to defend her actions – probably by saying that she hadn't punched Madison hard or that Madison had deserved it or something along those lines – but Cuddy was quick to say, "I don't need an excuse."

"But –"

"Hitting her just makes her aware of how much she upset you. You _really_ want to get back at her?" Rachel nodded her head enthusiastically. "Then you do your best… in everything you do, Rachel. You don't let what _anyone_ says affect you."

Rachel was _not_ impressed. "I think I like punching better."

Against her better judgment, Cuddy smirked. A breathy laugh escaping her, she couldn't say anything but "I know." She nodded her head. "I know. But… at the end of the day, _nothing_ makes other people more miserable than seeing someone they hate doing well."

"I guess."

"Listen to me," Cuddy said, pulling her daughter closer to her. Their gazes meeting one another, she told her slowly, "If there's one thing you need to know about being Jewish, it's that there have been _many_ times where someone tried to destroy us. And _failed_. A lot of people would have given up _centuries_ ago, but Jews didn't. They fought to be who they were, to… believe the things they did."

Cupping Rachel's cheeks in her hands, Cuddy continued, "And _that_ spirit is part of who _we_ are. It's in our blood. Our grandparents, great grandparents – they all were Jewish, all determined to pass on these traditions to us – and I _know_ that that is in you, just like it's in me."

She anticipated Rachel's response, wondering how she would feel about it, wondering just how much she would even understand. But Rachel didn't get a chance to say anything, because at that moment, there was a noise that attracted both of their attentions.

It was the sound of a wall being banged.

It was the sound of House.

The noise was obviously intentional, meant to draw both Rachel and Cuddy out of the conversation they were having. And his plan worked, because instantly they both looked at him.

Just glancing at him, Cuddy could tell that he had been listening to her for quite a while. He had heard her talk about being Jewish and what that meant for her, and though he had heard and seen her say and do things far more intimate… for some reason,_ this_ felt skin-crawlingly invasive.

She waited for him to say something, waited for the approval that she didn't even know she wanted until this very moment. In the back of her mind, she knew it was stupid to expect him to suddenly change his mind about religion. But part of her hoped nonetheless that he would come to appreciate her beliefs.

He didn't.

And realizing that he would never respect this part of her, childish though it was, she couldn't help but avert her eyes.

First she glanced to Rachel then to the dough that was sitting on the kitchen table. Instinctively Cuddy grabbed the rolling pin; pretending like nothing was happening wasn't an option, but at least this would provide a distraction.

Rolling the dough out in what could only be described as a violent matter, she asked gruffly, "What do you want?"

Her mood seemed to rub off on him, because he responded in kind, "Don't worry, _Yenta_ Stewart. Just getting a Band-Aid."

She pressed down on the dough roughly. "You're bleeding?"

"No, I'm building a fort out of them," House said sarcastically. "_Yes_. I'm bleeding."

"I mean _why_ are you –"

"I cut myself."

Cuddy bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from threatening to kill him. Tempting though it was, she rationally understood that saying those kinds of things in front of Rachel was _not_ okay. Certainly, they wouldn't ever convince her to stop hitting people. And Cuddy knew that, so she instead told him, "I don't know if we have any, but you _do_ know where to look."

"Yeah, I _do_, but silly me, I thought you might not like me bleeding all over the counter."

She was about to tell him to stop being dramatic. But by chance, she accidentally looked at him, her eyes catching him as he moved a little. And instantly, she could see that he wasn't exaggerating, not by any means.

He wasn't _gushing _blood, but there was more than enough trickling down his hand for her to notice, even at this distance. It was more than enough for Cuddy to push aside her irritation and spring to action.

"Oh God," she murmured in surprise. Setting the rolling pin down with a loud clunk, she asked again, this time more kindly, "What did you do?" But she didn't even wait for him to answer; she was already moving to the sink, so that she could wash her hands and then his. "Come here," she ordered over the running water. "You need to wash that off."

The fact that he listened was proof enough that he really did want her help. Walking toward her, he stopped only when he was pressed against her back. As he rested his chin on her shoulder, he gave her his bloody hand.

Up close and personal, it wasn't that bad. The cut was actually a series of small lacerations on his index finger and thumb, making it look like he'd stuck his hand in a bowl of glass. But as she washed his hand with warm water, she couldn't see any debris in the wounds or any indications that he would need stitches.

"You'll be fine."

"Really," he said dryly, kissing her shoulder. "I was hoping I'd need stitches, make you put on a naughty nurse outfit."

She dropped his hand. "I don't have one of those." Exasperation laced every word, and that feeling remained when she turned her head towards Rachel and told her, "And _stop_ eating the cookie dough, Rachel, or I'm going to have to make another batch."

Rachel guiltily shoved the bit of raw batter she'd had in her hands into her mouth, as though eating it would make it as though it had never existed. But Cuddy wasn't really paying attention to that anymore.

Her words had ignited something inside of her:

An idea.

Though she had succeeded in not thinking about it for quite some time, the hospital's legal troubles still weighed heavily in the back of her mind. By now, she had already outlined in her head how the next couple of months would go. The D.E.A. would swarm around the hospital, buzzing for information and confessions; everyone's prescribing practices would come under fire, Roberts' behavior casting a long shadow over Princeton-Plainsboro. But that would be little more than a nuisance.

To be sure, it would reflect poorly on her, but it wouldn't affect her in the long run. Because really what it came down to, when it came to her job, was how much money the hospital was or wasn't making. Oh, the board liked to _say_ they cared about patients, but at the end of the day, everyone came with a dollar sign attached, and that more than anything else was the bottom line. Which meant that the D.E.A. was nothing compared to the money the hospital would lose from David Howard's accounts being frozen.

And _that_ was what really bothered her.

Her perceived incompetence for allowing this to happen was one thing to the board. But losing the hospital money would be something else entirely in their eyes – and _that_ was what scared her. Because although she hadn't actually done anything wrong (logically she knew this), this was a fireable offense.

Nothing she had done in the past, none of the good she had done for the hospital would matter in light of this turn of events. And she had known from the second this had begun to unfold that if she wanted to keep her contract, she needed to find a way to replace whatever money they would lose from Howard. But up until now, she had had no idea how she was going to accomplish such a task.

Up until _now_.

Cuddy wasn't sure what it was that made her connect all of the dots in her head. But at that moment, as she spoke of the possibility of having to make another batch, she realized _exactly_ what she needed to do. She _would _make more cookies… and give them to the one donor who she could manipulate with little effort.

John Kelley had been in and out of her life for years. She'd only meant for him to be a one night stand, but clearly that hadn't panned out. First he'd gotten sick and unexpectedly become a patient of House's. The fact that he'd been diagnosed with hereditary hemorrhagic telangiectasia meant that he was occasionally in and out of the hospital for blood or iron transfusions. And the more recent development – that he had also been appointed the New Jersey goodwill ambassador for his uncle's company – had made him the man to talk to about donations. In short he was the one night stand who refused to go away.

Of course, his presence was hardly a negative one. He was kind and generous and _incredibly_ thoughtful. Over Christmas, he had brought her both a sizable check and a plateful of cookies (hence she thought of him now), and whenever she had asked him for money in the past, he had been more than willing to donate. And he cared about her enough as a person that, if she were to go to his house tomorrow under the guise of _mishloach manot_ and explain what was happening, he would give her the cash without any hesitation.

She didn't _want_ to do that, of course. John had become a friend of sorts over the years, and she _hated_ feeling as though she was using their camaraderie to benefit her career. And she _really_ hated it when House, acting like a jealous imbecile, threw that fact in her face and hated it even more, because she couldn't really deny that he was right.

But she would never tell him that, just as she wasn't planning on telling him that she was going to go see John tomorrow. Doing _that_ would only make the rest of the day unbearable, what could have been a nice day filled with remarks about boy toys and The Village People (despite the fact that John had been in the _marines_). So she was just going to keep her machinations to herself.

And quite frankly, she liked her plan. It was simple, neat. Jews were supposed to give gifts of nourishment to friends and family anyway, so there was even a pleasant veneer of goodness on the entire endeavor. And if at some point House found out or she decided to tell House, fine.

She just wasn't going to do that _now_.

What she _was_ going to do was bandage him up and get him out of the room, so she could continue baking.

Turning off the faucet, Cuddy told him, "I'll get a couple Band-Aids. I'm not changing my clothes."

He stood where he was, sensing that something was off with Cuddy. She was avoiding – he could see that very clearly. But what she was trying to hide and if she meant to be withholding from him, he wasn't so sure.

Quietly he decided to keep an eye on her. If she were hiding something, he would figure it out. And in the meantime, he would continue to mess with her.

In a voice just loud enough for her to hear, he asked, "If I _buy_ you the nurse's outfit, would you wear it?"

Cuddy scoffed as she reached into the cupboard where the Band-Aids were kept. "I'm a doctor."

"Sort of."

She sneered at him but continued talking. "If the sight of me helping people or _looking_ like I help people is what _gets you off_…" She hissed that last part, clearly worried about Rachel listening in on their conversation. "Then you can _see_ me do that. Any day of the week."

Cuddy ripped open two Band-Aids. As she placed them on his fingers one right after the other, she said, "If you just want to see me in cheap polyester…" She bunched up the waxy paper the bandages had been in. Tossing them into the trashcan, she simply finished, "Too bad."

He cocked his head to the side, curious. "You'd let me pee on you –"

"_House_."

He kept talking undeterred and unconcerned about the kid (who, truth be told, was too busy chowing down on uncooked dough to pay attention to him). "You'd let me pee on you, but you won't wear something I intend on ripping off of you in five minutes."

For a brief instant, she looked at him as though she were trying to decide if he were wasting her time. And in all honesty, he couldn't figure out what side of the coin she fell on, but either way, she responded tersely, "All right, fine. You want to see me in that? Go ahead. Buy one. Just make it one that won't make _me_ break out into hives."

She started to saunter away, but he reached out and grabbed her hand. "Hey," he said gently, catching her attention. "You forgot to kiss my boo boos."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" she asked sarcastically.

"Cute," he said with a sneer. But when she made no move to kiss him, he felt the need to prompt her. "Well?"

"You'll live. Now go away."

Yup. She was definitely hiding something, he decided. She was saying all of the things he would anticipate her to say. He would _expect_ her to brush him off, to want him to go away. She _was_ trying to do something right now, and given the way Rachel was making her way through the raw cookies, it was probably smart for Cuddy to get back to it.

But…

Still, there was something about her behavior that was… _off_.

"You're hiding something," he said knowingly.

"Not my irritation, I hope."

"Now, you're deflecting."

"Because I'm doing something," she explained in exasperation. "And as fun as it is to listen to you talk about all of your _perversions_, I have things to do."

"Uh huh."

She folded her arms across her chest. "What? You think I'm lying? You think I'm _not_ doing something?"

He shook his head. "I think you're trying to get rid of me."

"Because you're _annoying_."

Looking at her carefully, House could tell that this wasn't the right approach. Whatever it was she was hiding, it wasn't something he was going to get from her by fishing for it. And the more he tried to get it out of her by _asking_, the less likely it was that she would tell him. Which meant he wouldn't be able to confront her until he had _some_ sort of indication as to what was bothering her.

"Fine," he said, giving her – at least superficially – what she wanted. "I will be ordering all sorts of naughty things for you to wear."

At that he left, not missing her sarcastic "Great."

But it was much harder for him to think of anything other than what Cuddy was hiding. True, it didn't help that, when he retreated to his hidey-hole, he continued working on something that was completely _Cuddy's_.

The damn bowl.

He hated the thing. He hadn't before, but now that he'd spent a fair amount of time trying to manipulate the pieces, now that he'd cut himself trying to do that… he wanted nothing more than to shove the broken bits right back into the trashcan.

He _wouldn't_ do that. He'd spent too much time working on it already, and now that he'd started, he was determined to finish reconstructing the stupid thing. It would be a pain in his ass to do, but he would do it. As tedious as it would be, it was definitely preferable to do this than to let Cuddy fixate on the broken bowl for the next month or so.

She would be appalled by the time frame he was giving her. If she were to know his thinking, she would think he was being overly dramatic; she would claim that she wasn't that upset about the bowl, that she certainly wasn't going to be upset for a _month_. But he knew better.

Just as he knew that the behavior he'd seen in the kitchen had nothing to do with the broken dish. True, it was more than apparent that she cared about it, but it was just as apparent that something _else_ was going on… something _new_.

It wasn't work.

He didn't doubt that she was preoccupied by that, but nothing about that had changed recently. There was no reason why she should be _more_ distracted by that now, no reason why she should keep any developments from him even if there were one.

It wasn't Rachel. Rachel was fine. The incident at the school and the fallout of it might have been bothering Cuddy, but again, that had happened _earlier_. And the same could be said for the whole… _sex_ debacle.

Ugh.

Just the thought of it made House shiver with disgust.

He was trying very hard _not_ to think about _that_, but given his penchant for fixating on things, it was an impossible task.

It _should_ have been easy.

Given the way they had sex, he thought he should have known that this day would come eventually. And Cuddy was concerned and upset enough for the both of them that he should have been able to play the role of optimist; he should have been able to say and _believe_ that everything would be okay.

But saying the words and believing them were two different things, and silently, he dabbled with the possibilities of how this would resolve itself.

House wanted to say with definity that this would simply cement Rachel's need for lifelong therapy. However, the bomb she'd dropped at lunch – the whole "Are you making babies" debacle – had added a spicy punch to their normal levels of dysfunction, and now he wasn't so sure he could predict Rachel's behavior with any accuracy.

All right, fine – using _actual _logic to understand someone completely embroiled in her own reasoning wasn't exactly a brilliant plan to begin with. She _was_ five, and her comprehension of the world was hardly formed, so her ability to do things in a predictable and rational fashion was limited. And it went without saying that today, she'd gone _way_ out of the bounds House had mentally set for her.

But as he thought that, he supposed that maybe the same could be said for Cuddy. Maybe she wasn't hiding anything from him; perhaps she was just shocked by what Rachel had _said_.

It made sense.

He hadn't seen Cuddy after lunch. The second Rachel had taken off down the hallway, he'd checked out of the whole family drama. And if Cuddy were avoiding him, keeping something from him, he supposed it very well could have been something that Rachel had told her after he'd run away.

But if discovering a possibility for Cuddy's behavior was supposed to make him feel better…

It didn't.

It _really_ didn't.

Because there was nothing good that could come from that. He just had to look at the circumstances to know that much was true; talk about babies, Cuddy looking at him in disappointment the second he'd entered the kitchen, Cuddy avoiding him… yeah, that didn't end well.

Not for _him_ anyway.

Cause, really, the only way all those puzzle pieces fit together was if Cuddy had decided she wanted another kid and feared his reaction to that news.

_God_.

It was true.

She wanted a baby.

There was no other explanation.

She… wanted another child.

And since he didn't want _any_, she was realizing that this was obviously a problem.

A big problem.

A problem that would… probably end their relationship.

No.

As he looked over the pieces of the shattered bowl, he understood that this situation _would_ end their relationship.

How could it not?

If she wanted a baby, then he was one big obstacle in that occurring. He certainly wasn't the _only_ problem; he was more than aware of Cuddy's journey to motherhood and everything that had entailed, and he knew he wouldn't the only obstacle.

But he would be the first one she came across.

And if he said no…

That was it.

She would have to decide what she wanted more – him or a baby – and he _knew_ what the choice would be, what the choice would _have_ to be. Perhaps she wouldn't dump him outright. But… the absence of a child would gradually get to her. At first she would accept the way things were; she would tell herself that she could get used to a small family, that she didn't _really_ want another kid. And that would work until it didn't, and then she would start to resent him. Cuddy would deny it, of course, but she would eventually resent him. And then… _then_ they would break up anyway.

Sooner or later, that was what would happen if he didn't agree to a kid.

So… if he wanted to keep her (and it went without saying that he did), he would have to say… yes?

Instantly he felt the need to distance himself from his thoughts. It was safer that way.

House reached for the tweezers he'd been using to arrange the pieces of the bowl. For a brief moment earlier, he'd thought he could get away with doing this by hand. But the bandages on his fingers now were proof that he couldn't.

Changing tactics, he slowly began to sort through the broken bits. The ceramic pieces scraping and scratching against the wood of his desk fairly noisily, it still wasn't loud enough to silence the thoughts floating in his mind. But it _did_ allow him to consider the matter with enough detachment to prevent himself from losing it.

Testing two misshapen pieces to see if they would fit, he mentally did the same with the idea of him entering parenthood.

He didn't _want_ to be a father.

He'd made that much obvious. But the real question for him was _not_ whether he _wanted_ kids. It was whether he could give that up for Cuddy.

Could he?

He wanted to say no. His first instinct was to believe that he could never give her what she needed. But if that were true… breaking up with Cuddy would become an inevitability. And so, understandably wanting to avoid that, he knew that his only option was to give her a kid. Which meant that at this point, it wasn't even a matter of _could_.

He _had_ to.

Which meant that he had to accept that and move on. He just… had to find some way of being all right with fatherhood and then go from there.

He was very purposely trying _not_ to think about how life would change. No good could come from thinking about how he was doing this – giving Cuddy another _distraction_ – in order to keep her in his life. So he focused on what was right in front of him, the one indisputable truth he was now facing:

Sharing Cuddy with two people was better than living without her.

_Far better_.

But knowing that didn't make his choice settle in the pit of his stomach any easier.

As he worked on the bowl, there was every now and then a moment where he would think – _briefly_ – that maybe he really could do this. After all, it wasn't like he'd ever _dated_ Cuddy without a kid being involved. Rachel had been there since the beginning. And though there were times when House didn't appreciate Little Orphan Annie in his life… he couldn't really imagine life with Cuddy without the rug rat. She was annoying, yes – _yes_. But he never found himself thinking that Cuddy didn't love him because Rachel existed.

So…

Maybe…

_Maybe_ it would be okay.

But for each moment of optimism, there were hundreds more capable of dragging him back down into the muck of despair and doubt. He couldn't do this… right?

Or could he?

Hours later, long after he'd made this decision, he still didn't know what the answer to that fundamental question was. He still felt unsure, _scared_… perplexed in every way by his future. The back and forth had exhausted him without resolution, and it had consumed his entire evening.

He'd hoped to use the bowl as a distraction, but in truth it had been completely abandoned (as had dinner) in favor of wondering what the next couple of years would be like.

IUI?

IVF?

Pregnancy?

Birth mothers?

Adoption agencies?

It all seemed so… _daunting_ and ill fitting, especially since he didn't really want to do any of it.

This was obviously all Cuddy – her dreams, her desires, her needs.

And though he was choosing to go along with that, he couldn't help but have a hard time envisioning what all of it would be like _for him_.

Part of him wanted to believe that things with a new child could be like how they were with Rachel; he would be the closest thing the kid had to a father, but he wouldn't be _the father_, and nobody would ever call him that. He would just be… the bystander in all of the parental _stuff_.

He would have been okay with that… he guessed. However, he _knew_ it wouldn't be like that.

It would _never_ be like that.

Already Cuddy was pushing him to be closer to Rachel, to take more responsibility, and he doubted that that pressure would be any less with another kid. In fact, he was sure Cuddy would be a thousand times worse than she was now. More children meant more needs, which meant more demand on Cuddy, which would inevitably lead her to being proportionately demanding of _him_.

But wanting to keep – _protect_ – this relationship, House wasn't willing to let that concern derail his plan.

Was that – _this_ – completely insane?

He was getting the distinct feeling that this was crazy.

All right, it was _definitely _nuts. Maybe it wasn't as bad as hallucinating a night with Cuddy; maybe it wasn't _actual_ mental illness, but it was… not good.

Then again, it wasn't like he was swimming with options here.

At that second, House reached for the phone on his desk. He needed to talk to Wilson. He didn't think he was missing something, but he was so blinded by fear (he admitted it) that maybe he _was_. And if he was going to be thinking that this was his only option, he wanted to know that that was actually true _before_ Cuddy delivered the placenta.

God, he thought with a sigh.

_Pregnant Cuddy_.

The concept was so discombobulating that he couldn't help but pause mid-dial. The very idea so strange and so _awful_, House reacted by hanging up immediately. He'd wanted to talk to Wilson, but realizing it would come at the expense of being able to pretend that this wasn't happening…

Yeah, he could wait to talk about this.

Part of him might have felt like he would burst if he didn't, but right now, the majority of House was afraid to give voice to the choice he was making. And that was something he couldn't get past.

So… for the time being, he would just have to deal with this on his own.

Of course, _how_ he was going to do that, he had no idea.

What the hell, he though peevishly, bitterly. Why couldn't his girlfriend want something normal like… flowers or jewelry or whatever the hell it was that women liked? He could give her those things. Why did she want a _baby_?

Really – _why_?

Was there supposed to be something appealing about baby barf and dirty diapers and loud crying at two in the morning? Sure, he could rationally understand that there was a biological imperative at work here; he could comprehend that Cuddy wanted to reproduce for reasons that were out of her control. But that was why she had a brain – to rationalize her decisions regardless of what the rest of her wanted. And either she wasn't doing that or she _had_ and still felt that another baby was a good thing, which brought him right back to his original question:

_Why_?

Was there something he was missing about pregnancy that made it seem _awesome_ (he couldn't help but say that word derisively in his mind) to Cuddy? Was there some hidden joy in mucus plugs and afterbirth that he was missing? Was he supposed to think that there was something appealing about crapping your pants in front of a bunch of strangers? Cause he'd seen that, thanks to his years as a doctor (and Wilson's friend, but he preferred not to think about _that_ time), and frankly he couldn't see the appeal – especially if the result of all of that was a _kid_.

But maybe he was getting too far ahead of himself there. Before the baby, before the birth, there had to be the pregnancy (assuming they were to go that route). And truth be told… House just couldn't see it.

Okay. He knew that there had been a time when he'd seen Cuddy _pregnant_. The fall after he'd been shot, there had been a very brief period of time when she'd been pregnant. And though he had known, _sensed_ it at the time, she still hadn't _looked_ the part. But if she didn't miscarry this time, things would be different.

And he wasn't sure he could handle that. Because although her body wasn't the only thing he liked about her, he couldn't deny that he _was_ attached to it as it was. He liked the way her breasts fit nicely in his hands, the warm weight just enough to be satisfying without making him feel like there was too much to handle. He liked being able to skim her ribs and clavicle with his fingertips, liked the way her hipbones pressed into his palms when he gripped her hips. He liked her ass, _loved_ everything about it; in fact, he could have waxed poetically for hours about her ass if he wanted to. But since it and everything else about her physique were going to change, he didn't want to think about what he was about to lose.

In fact, now that he thought about it, maybe the right thing to do was to focus on what he would _gain_ from Cuddy being pregnant. Granted, off the top of his head, he couldn't think of a single thing, but he figured that there must have been something he was missing. Sure, men had a biological drive to spread their seed everywhere, but the fact of the matter was that some men had been capable of monogamy. Odd though it might have been, there were men who stuck around after impregnating their wives, girlfriends, and mistresses. So there must have been _something_ to look forward to… aside from the whole parenting thing.

What that was exactly, he still had no idea. _But_ he did suspect that the answer was at his fingertips.

Almost literally.

Reaching down, House opened the lowermost drawer in his desk. In it were the contents of many of the things he'd taken from patients' homes. Not for _personal_ use, mind you, but every now and then, he would come across a patient so intent on lying that blackmail became a necessary tool to diagnose.

Sometimes, that meant using possessions to make the threat potent.

In this particular case, he hadn't actually needed to use the DVD copy of _Screwin' for Two 2_ to get the patient to own up to her elicit behavior. But House had kept the DVD he'd stolen nonetheless. _Again_, not for personal use; pregnant ladies didn't exactly do it for him (he just assumed that there'd be a time when Wilson, in the process of a divorce, would need a good laugh, and Steve McQueef's fine work would certainly accomplish that).

But now he was wondering if it might illuminate for him the possible good that could come from getting Cuddy pregnant.

Clutching the DVD to his chest, he realized that this was the very definition of pathetic. Looking to porn for any sort of advice was _pathetic_. He could freely admit as much. But at this point, what did he really have to lose?

Since he could only answer that question with _nothing_, he decided that anything that could make this situation better was something he was going to use to his advantage.

Even if it was porn.

Glancing at the clock, he was pleased to see that it was late. Cuddy would be wrangling Rachel for bed, and since Rachel had more cookies in her than a box of Oreos, _that_ would take a while. Which meant that he would have plenty of time to watch _Screwin' for Two 2_ without interruption.

Or not.

He'd barely had the movie on for five minutes before Cuddy came trudging into the bedroom. Her footsteps heavy and sluggish, she muttered, "I smell like prunes."

He watched her silently as she crawled onto the bed. Curling up next to him, she pressed her face into his chest and exhaled. She was warm against him, the small of her back heated under his fingertips. And she was right, he thought, as he pushed her hair out of her face; she _did_ smell like prunes. "A little bit," he said in agreement, pulling her closer to him.

She made a noise that sounded like a whine-groan hybrid, her voice almost lost completely by the pregnant brunette moaning as she rode some guy sitting in a Lazy Boy. "I need to shower."

"You smell fine," House told her honestly. The prune thing aside, more than anything, he thought she smelled like cookies – sweet and warm in a way that could only be the product of baking. He liked it.

Cuddy did not. "You're watching porn. Your opinion –"

"Is irrelevant because I'm doing a little research? I don't think so."

She sat up a little, propping herself up on her elbows. Although he expected her to argue with him, she simply asked, "What are you watching?" And he supposed that it made sense that she acquiesced the point; after all, how many times had she watched porn with him? Answer: too many for her to think that being a fan of pornography automatically invalidated your opinions.

But House couldn't exactly feel smug. As she turned her head to see what he was watching, he understood that the upper hand was quickly moving to _her_. As if the ground were swelling, cracking, and shifting beneath him, he could feel things sway towards her advantage.

If she felt it though, she didn't say. All she did was repeat in confusion, "What _are_ you watching?"

Maybe he should have told her everything he knew right then and there. But, although the conversation about children seemed an unavoidable one, he couldn't say the words. So he simply said, "I know what you've been hiding."

She looked at him as though he were crazy. "And you think I've been hiding a pregnant woman fetish? Because…" She chuckled lightly. "This isn't attractive."

"So then I shouldn't pre-order _Screwin' for Two 3_ when it comes out?"

She wasn't so much amused by the joke as she was by the title. "_That's_ what this is called?" He handed the DVD case to her in response. As she read the box, she scoffed. "'A pregnant woman just can't seem to get enough… they eat all the time, wanna fuck all the time,'" Cuddy quoted with disdain. "'These out of control bitches with buns in the oven' – House, I really hope you don't think that this is what –"

"You want a baby," he said in a tone as emotionless as he could make it. "I know that much."

At first Cuddy wasn't sure she heard him right. Of all the things he could think that she wanted, _babies_… was the last thing she expected him to say. And though she could recognize what the words meant, as they washed over her, she found herself wondering if there weren't some hidden message that she was missing. Because surely he was _not_ thinking that she wanted a child.

But he must have been.

He was offering no other explanation, no smirk that said, "I'm screwing with you." And so, he must have been completely serious, which made no sense at all.

Her eyes darting back and forth from him to the DVD box to him once more, she was hesitant when she asked, "What are – what are you talking about?"

"I thought I was clear. You want a baby." His gaze was intent on hers, his rigid body, as though he were uncomfortable saying the words, reinforcing the idea that he was being serious.

Cuddy shook her head and tossed the DVD case onto the nightstand. "No."

"You –"

"I don't want a child." He looked at her with disbelief, which only infuriated her. Louder, angrier, she repeated, "I_ don't_ want a child."

But as the words came out of her mouth for a second time, she realized that that wasn't exactly true. She _did_ want Rachel. So Cuddy had to immediately add, "I don't want _another_ child."

Still, House didn't seem convinced. It didn't matter that she was rebuking the entire notion of another child; it didn't matter that she had _said_ earlier _today_ that she didn't want another baby. He clearly refused to believe her.

However, she wasn't going to go to bed with him thinking – as he obviously was – that she needed a son or another daughter. And though making him understand that required her to immerse herself into his insanity, she knew it had to be done.

Sitting up, she tucked her feet under her ass and looked at him. "Why would you even think that I wanted that?"

He didn't answer right away. He couldn't. The way she was vehemently denying the whole thing made him wonder if he hadn't overlooked something, if he hadn't screwed something up along the way.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to explain with a slight shake of the head, "Rachel said at lunch… and then you were avoiding me…"

His thoughts were broken, half-completed and barely uttered with any volume. Facing the possibility of being incorrect, he was reluctant to explain fully, to demonstrate just how wrong he'd gotten the whole thing. And if Cuddy could read between the lines at all, it was because she clearly understood him better than he her.

"House…" Her voice was equally quiet and filled with pitiful understanding that felt suffocating to his sensibilities. "If you'll recall, I told Rachel I didn't want –"

"Then she ran away, and you –"

"Rachel was upset, because her _friend_ told her that we didn't want any more kids, because we didn't love her," Cuddy explained, trying to keep the bitterness out of her tone. "Rachel doesn't actually want a brother or sister. She just thinks she does, because she is terrified that I think she's a burden."

She bit down on her lip, her anger nearly getting the better of her. As it had been with Rachel, Madison's words would not be forgotten any time soon. But Cuddy was determined not to dwell on them either.

Clearing her throat, she added, "I calmed her down. I told her that I loved her and that her friend was an idiot. I didn't promise her a sibling, and I don't ever plan on doing that."

"Oh."

Reality stupefied him, left him unable to speak beyond that single word. But it obviously wasn't enough for Cuddy.

"'Oh'?" She was lightly mocking him.

His head bobbed a little as he tried to process what she had told him. "I… you _don't_ want another kid?"

"No."

But her answer was a little too exasperated, a little too hurried to be believable. Even to her own ears, she could recognize as much.

"All right," she conceded. "I won't deny that… having another baby would be… nice. It would be. But…" She shrugged. "I _don't_ want to go through that process again."

"Because of me," House said, as though he were finishing the thought for her.

However, truthfully, her choice had nothing to do with him. And the last thing she wanted was for him to believe that he had somehow kept her from having more children when she really wanted them.

"_No_," she said loudly with as much earnestness as she could infuse into her tone. "Not _because_ of you. Because… getting Rachel? It wasn't easy, and I don't want to go through all of that _again_ without any promise of there actually being a baby at the end of the road."

But that just seemed to make him even more displeased.

"So you're _afraid _to –"

"I'm not a coward," she interrupted insistently.

"No? You're just –"

"_Yeah_." She could feel her anger build. She _hated_ when he did this to her – when he put very complex, difficult choices in simple black and white terms that only seemed to degrade her decision. "I'm _just_ choosing to avoid putting my family through –"

"So you're doing this for _us_," he said, the words dripping with disdain.

"I'm doing this, because, as nice as the whole idea is, another baby would be hard to obtain and… even harder for all of us to adjust to." He opened his mouth to say something, but Cuddy was too quick for him. "This isn't about _you_. This isn't about me being afraid. I'm just not willing to risk my happiness – or yours or Rachel's – for something I don't feel compelled to have."

Almost immediately she could tell that he was _finally_ listening to her; there was no instantaneous comeback, no insult or quip for her to respond to. And though she didn't really understand why those words were the ones getting through to him, they very obviously were.

There was no explaining how grateful she was for that.

Smiling a little, she leaned over, hands on his chest, and kissed him. He was slow to respond, despite the fact that her warm mouth craved a response. Almost as though he weren't sure how to react, it took him a moment to move. But eventually, he did, his lips quivering ever so slightly as he captured her lower lip with his mouth.

His hands were warm, rubbing along her back. His fingers splayed as widely as possible, his palms flush against her skin, he held her close to him, as though he feared her slipping away from him.

His words a whisper along her mouth, he asked, "You sure?"

Her smile widened, and he could feel the changing contour of her lips pressed against his own. His stubble scraping and snagging as she spoke, he felt it in his body when she explained without any hesitation or doubt, "You, me, Rachel – that's our family."

The honesty in her words was startling. House didn't know what he'd expected her to say, but he did know that it hadn't been that; it hadn't been the idea that Cuddy viewed them as a family – and a complete one at that. Perhaps he'd suspected – _feared_ – it, but hearing it now…

It was a truth that frightened him, even as he recognized that his body thrummed with the pleasure of having heard it. And he couldn't help but make a joke out of it (it was easier, _safer_ that way).

"What – no dog?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes and pulled away. "I'm allergic to dogs."

"Barely."

"They make my eyes water."

"Fine. A cat?"

"Would send Rachel into anaphylaxis, which you know."

"Lizard? Fish? Bird? Rat?"

He was irritating the hell out of her, but for some reason, she couldn't help but laugh anyway.

"Never mind," she replied with a chuckle. "A dog. If we have to have a pet in this equation, a dog. God only knows it can't be any more filthy than you."

House opened his mouth to reply, but at that exact moment, one of the women from _Screwin' for Two 2_ moaned loudly, drawing both of their attentions to the television.

Cuddy groaned. "For the love of God, please turn that off." As he did, she asked curiously, as though the question were just entering her mind, "You thought I was avoiding you earlier?"

At that moment, he remembered that she _had_ been avoiding him, that that had been the impetus for all of this to begin with. And if she weren't desperate for a baby (thankfully), then she must have been avoiding him for some _other_ reason.

He jerked his head to look at her. "Yeah. I did. Why _were_ you avoiding me?"

She started to say, "I wasn't." But that was a lie. She knew it. And in the face of him seemingly offering her a baby (in the most roundabout, repulsive way possible), it felt wrong to lie; it felt like she had no other choice than to offer him at least something equally revealing in turn.

Resting her back against the headboard, she didn't look at him when she explained, "I was… talking to Rachel when we were making cookies. You heard me say… things…" Her voice hitched in the back of her throat. Honesty, though necessary, wasn't easy for her, and she couldn't help but feel raw and ill at ease at trying to explain to him why she had been upset.

Or at least _partially_ why she'd been upset; what she was saying now wasn't a lie. But it was only part of the truth.

It was the part he could handle.

Not that he couldn't handle hearing about how she was going to see John Kelley tomorrow. Though House would behave otherwise, Cuddy knew he could deal with that. But since he _would_ act like a two year old sharing a toy, she wasn't going to tell him _that_… not now anyway.

So she swallowed hard and forced herself to say the one thing she thought _she_ could handle uttering. "I was talking about what it meant to be a Jew, and you were there, and you said… _nothing_."

He looked at her in confusion. "Was I supposed to say something?"

She shook her head furiously. "I don't know. Maybe I was hoping that you would…" Her voice drifted off in mid-thought.

"I would what?"

She bit her lip, her mind fighting the desire to tell him to just forget about it. "I don't know what I wanted. But you were just… _standing_ there, watching me like… and – and not saying anything –"

"What did you want me to say?" he asked, sitting up in interest.

"I don't know."

"You're lying."

"I _don't_ –"

"You do," he insisted knowingly. "Or else, you wouldn't have avoided me, and you wouldn't –"

"I wanted you to be supportive," she blurted out loudly. And now that the truth was out there, she couldn't hold back. "I wanted you to give me this weekend, not as part of some _bet_, but because you –"

"What?" he demanded to know. "Because I suddenly believed in _God_?"

"_No_," she snapped. "Because you knew it was important to _me_. Not because you wanted me to _fuck_ –"

"Oh, come on!" He held his hands up to his chest as though to tell her to stop it. "Who says those things are mutually exclusive?"

It wasn't the answer she was expecting. "What?"

"Why can't it be both?" he asked her in a calmer manner. "Why can't it be that I get that it's important to you _and_ that I like taking every opportunity that I can to have sex with you?"

She looked at him dumbfounded. "_What_?"

He rolled his eyes. "It's important to you. I might not like that, but I_ am_ capable of understanding that it matters to you."

"I wish you did," she said in a shaky voice that was barely above a whisper.

There.

She'd said it, one of the many things she thought but never said out of fear. Fear of rejection, being mocked… all of it, and by uttering those words, she had now foolishly put herself in the position of being on the receiving end of all of that.

But in the end, he didn't mock her at all. Instead, he told her, "I know. You want me to believe the same things. You want my approval..." He shrugged a little and said with utmost seriousness, "You don't need it."

"You act like wanting it is a bad thing." She scoffed a little at the idea. "Considering you were thinking you had to agree to have a baby with –"

"I never said that."

She laughed mockingly. "You didn't have to. I read between the lines."

"Well, good for you," he snapped. Quickly though he got his temper under control. He didn't want a fight, not really.

His voice calm once more, he continued, "You want me to approve of everything you believe in, and that's not going to happen. I'm not… someone you answer to."

What he was saying was all nice in theory. But she was reluctant to simply accept it. Looking at him doubtfully, she said, "Right. I don't answer to you. But I do something you don't like, and I get to listen to you taunt –"

"It's what I do," he replied easily.

"So I see."

"I never said I was perfect."

"Well, that much is obvious."

He looked at her as though he were wounded. However, she didn't feel guilty _at all_, because she could see the mirth in his eyes.

"And here I was, offering you sperm and compliments, about to say something nice," he told her in dismay.

"Don't let me stop you."

House shook his head. "Too late now."

She opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment, he rolled over on the bed. The motion startled her, forcing her into silence as he settled between her legs. Without a word, she moved her thighs farther apart to accommodate his warm weight. His hips pressed into hers.

Leaning down until his lips were close to her left ear, he said in a husky voice, "Now I'm going to have to do all sorts of naughty things to you."

She welcomed the change in tone eagerly. Though it didn't feel as though much had been resolved, she realized that they had come to some sort of agreement: they didn't need to change for one another. And although it wasn't the most satisfying way to end a conversation, she was okay with that for now.

Her fingers curled under the hem of his t-shirt. "Like you needed a reason to do that."

He smirked and reached to undo the jeans she'd put on after her bath. He slowly pulled down her zipper. The soft hiss of the fastener being undone tooth by tooth tantalized her ears, the knowledge that they were going to have sex making her heart race. The noise of the zipper and her heartbeat made her head feel as though it were buzzing, and her entire body began to thrum with that erotic energy.

However, he didn't undress her right then and there. Instead he asked her in a teasing voice, "What color panties are you wearin'?"

Given the argument they'd had earlier, it was a question Cuddy had no intention of answering. A groan the only noise escaping her lips, she brought one of her knees to her chest. Perhaps it was childish to want to respond to someone by kicking them, but she hardly cared. And he caught her by the ankle before her foot had even had a chance to connect with his chest, so it didn't exactly matter anyway.

His hand powerfully gripping her, he shook his head in dismay. "That's not very nice, Cuddy."

She was unremorseful. "You deserve it."

"For asking a question?" He was toying with her, trying to annoy her. She knew this, because as stupid as he could be, he wasn't that much of an idiot.

"For –"

"You know," he interrupted loudly. "You're just lucky that that impressive display of flexibility has earned you a reprieve. Otherwise your ass –"

"You keep saying you're going to do all these things to my ass, but so far…" She looked at him challengingly. "That's just been talk."

"Don't dare me, sweetheart."

"I wasn't," she replied innocently, sitting up just enough so that she could pull his shirt off. As she tossed it to the floor, she said, "I was just wondering if you planned on having sex with me or boring me to sleep."

He squeezed one of her breasts lightly. "I like a lot of foreplay."

"Well, as long as you plan on getting me off at some point." She tried to sound as peevish as she could, but it was hard; she could feel his cock, just beginning to stiffen, against her inner thigh and his thumb circling around her nipple. And though she wanted to sound annoyed, everything he was doing was making her want him above all else.

"Believe me," he said intently, as he untangled his body from hers. He moved to the foot of the bed and wrapped his hands around the bottom of her jeans. "I _definitely_ plan on doing that."

Her response was to raise her hips off of the bed. He hadn't said that he was planning on taking her pants off, but she didn't doubt that that was exactly what he was going to do. And by lifting her ass off of the bed, it was now easy for him to pull her jeans off of her body.

"Wow," he said, dropping the pants on the floor. Eloquent it was not, but House thought that it was apt. Because "wow" was the perfect description for discovering that his girlfriend hadn't been wearing any underwear _at all_.

She spread her legs wider for his benefit. "After you judged my choice in lingerie earlier today, I decided it wasn't worth _your_ hassling to put on another pair."

Sitting on the bed, he took off his socks and undid his pants. "I think you should take that approach to all clothes from now on."

"That's surprising," she replied drolly. "Next thing you'll be telling me that I should start my morning right by sucking you off every –"

"I already tell you that… although _where_ you put my penis doesn't really matter."

But Cuddy was in no mood to joke. As though she'd suddenly reached her limit, she said in a voice that approached a whine, "Can you please hurry, because –"

"Relax," he told her, pushing his pants and underwear to the floor. He was naked before her, a fact that never failed to give him a semi. Admittedly House knew he wouldn't last that long this time, knew that all of the sex they'd had today was pushing the limits of what his aging body could handle. Still, he couldn't fight the power the idea of having sex with her had over him. His voice lower, he said promisingly, "You'll get some."

He started to crawl on his hands and knees back up the length of the bed. But he paused when she asked, "Would that be happening any time soon? Do I have time to read a book or –"

"You want a time frame?" Taking one of her legs in his hands, he raised the limb into the air. Her skin was smooth underneath his fingertips, and he could feel the taught muscle of her calves, the product of more yoga and runs than he could imagine. She was perfect, he thought, everything he wanted and never thought he could have. And the thought heavy in his mind, he pressed a kiss to the back of her knee.

She hissed through her teeth, the noise thankfully killing whatever complaint she was clearly ready to utter.

He kissed her there again; the back of her knees were, for reasons unknown to him, incredibly sensitive, and just a skim of a thumb or lick of the tongue were enough to get her further into the mood. Indeed, with one past peck and nip of his teeth, she was right where he wanted her.

"House…"

Letting go of her body, he crawled the rest of the distance. When he was sitting next to her, he reached over and cupped one of her breasts. "Wanna take this off?" he asked, referring to the sweater and bra she was wearing.

She nodded her head enthusiastically.

"Sit up," he ordered.

She did, making it easier for him to grasp the fuzzy material of her sweater and pull it over her head. He tossed the shirt across the room; he didn't exactly care where it landed, as long as it was nowhere near them. As he did so, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cuddy fingering through her hair (cause clearly, he was going to care about the effect the static had had on her dark curls).

Thinking she was too self-conscious, he kissed her. His body, practically corkscrewed at the torso, loomed over top of hers. He balanced his weight on one elbow, so that he could unclasp her bra with his free hand. His eyes were closed, so his fingers searched blindly. Which apparently took too long for _her_, because as he skimmed her back, she bit his lower lip.

She wasn't teasing either. It wasn't a playful little twinge to urge him on. House didn't want to say that she was trying to hurt him either (though it did hurt), but he definitely got the impression that she was attempting to get a rise from him.

It made sense, he thought, purposely taunting her by delicately flicking his tongue into her mouth and along her teeth. She was stressed, undeniably so. And when she was stressed, she liked sex as rough as they could make it.

He doubted she was even fully aware of it, of her need to control by being controlled, by being _dominated_. And he sure as hell wasn't going to bring it up, because he knew she would say it was the dumbest thing she'd ever heard.

He wasn't wrong, of course; in every aspect of her life, when things were stressful, she took comfort in being able to complete even the littlest of tasks. It made her feel more in control, and when it came to the bedroom, whether she admitted it or not, she felt protected and reassured in doing what he ordered.

And he had no problem giving her what she wanted. But he didn't appreciate being bitten.

Pulling away from her, he said mockingly, "That wasn't nice."

If he expected her to fight him on that point, what he got in response was decidedly different. Completely serious, she replied, "I want your dick in my mouth. Now."

He blinked in surprise but quickly recovered. Rolling off of her, he settled his back against the headboard. He hadn't thought she'd be all that interested in blow jobs after what Rachel had walked into earlier today. But hey, if Cuddy wanted to do that, who was he to refuse?

Of course, he wasn't going to let her control the whole endeavor completely. He had _no_ intention of letting that happen. And she didn't _really_ want to direct things anyway (he knew that much), so it would all work itself out in the end.

But as of right now, he was willing to let her guide things.

The bed dipped as she rolled onto her side. His penis still wasn't all that hard on account of the fact that they hadn't done much up to this point. But the sight of her naked body and the knowledge that they would soon be joined together in a way that felt amazing and life altering every time they did it was beginning to breathe life into him.

At that moment, almost as though she were thinking the same thing, she looked into his eyes and smiled a little bit. Teasing she asked, "You think I wouldn't want to do this after –"

He groaned, stopping her from finishing the thought. "_I _think that we should make it a point never to speak about _that_ again."

Without even thinking much about it, House reached over and stroked her throat with the back of his hand. His knuckles raked lightly over the muscles, taut with the effort necessary for her to look up to him, and she smiled even wider. "All right," she said gently.

Honestly, she didn't really want to talk about it either. Clearly Cuddy would have had to have been mentally ill to want to discuss at length how her daughter had walked in on them having sex; if anything, if Cuddy had her way, this would never be brought up, mentioned – _referenced _in any way ever again. So she couldn't have been more relieved to know that House felt the same way. Not that she really thought he would want to talk about it, of course, but she didn't put it past him to bring it up to distract her, shame her, etc. If anyone was the kind of person to bring up that horribly embarrassing moment for personal gain, it was House.

That said, she _had_ been the one to bring it up now. Aside from the fact that she suspected House was thinking about it anyway, she thought that it was important to let him know:

She didn't blame him.

Earlier she had. She couldn't deny that. When it had first happened, underneath all of the shame, underneath all of the fear that Rachel would be screwed up for life, Cuddy had blamed House - had _hated_ him for somehow letting this happen. And though she had kept her temper as in check as she possibly could, she worried that she hadn't been as successful at that as was necessary to keep House from realizing that she did blame him. In fact, she was sure that he knew on some level that she had.

And now, all she wanted him to know was that... it was over. Rachel was fine – albeit sick from having way too many cookies. Though the little girl had brought up the notion of having babies, it had turned out that that had less to do with what she'd seen and more to do with what Madison had told her. Actually, given the way Madison had hurt Rachel's feelings, Cuddy was sure that Rachel would have asked about brothers and sisters soon enough anyway. And because of that, there was no rational reason to be upset at House.

... Well, at least, there was no reason to punish him for _that_.

She was prematurely feeling irritation over how he would react tomorrow upon learning that she was going to talk to John Kelley. But she wasn't willing to let that get in the way of what she wanted tonight, what she wanted right _now_.

And what she wanted was House.

In every way, as completely and totally as possible – she wanted him.

She wanted to be consumed by his desire for her and vice versa.

She wanted her body to be set ablaze with the embers of need and lust and love; she wanted the burn of the searing hot fire that hadn't been extinguished even after all of this time to consume her totally.

But in order to do that, she needed to get him hard.

He wasn't, unfortunately, though she knew that he would quickly rise to the occasion; he might have been an older man, certainly older than when they'd first done this. But he was more than capable of giving it to her the way she wanted as many _times_ as she wanted (and then some).

She just had to give him a little preparation.

And she was more than willing (and eager) to provide it.

As one of his hands skimmed the length of her body, his fingers dancing along her ribs, she reached for his cock. It was warm under her palm, the desire to taste him compelling her to lean forward.

Her hair slipped past her shoulders. The strands tickled his thigh and her upper chest. She started to lower her head, so that she could lick him. But at that moment, House stopped her by ordering, "Move up on the bed."

That was nearly impossible to do. She'd been resting against the headboard, and, thanks to the pillows and a wall, there really wasn't anywhere she could go. "I –"

"I want to touch you," he told her in a deep voice.

She nodded her head. She couldn't refuse him. The bed rocked as Cuddy shifted on the bed as best she could. House helped her move her pussy closer in reach. His hands on her hips, he guided her further up on the mattress. And though it absolutely broke the mood she'd been going for, in the end, she was glad to have the order.

As she lowered her head once more, House allowed his hand to skim across her ass. His touch was gentle, so feather light that she almost questioned whether or not it was actually happening. But it must have been, because as she pressed her first kiss to his penis, she felt him dip his fingers between her warm folds.

She gasped, blowing hot air onto his sensitive flesh (which only served to make his hips flinch in burgeoning desire). His hand possessively cupped her bottom. Though he was doing it in a way that was gentle for him, his grip was quickly becoming one she couldn't ignore. And didn't want to; his fingers were splayed as wide as they could possibly be. The tips of his middle and ring finger were just beginning to slip past her labia.

The sensation wasn't strong enough to make her soaking with desire. She doubted he expected it to. But the soft little caresses he was giving her were slowly warming her up.

And they were definitely making her quick to please him.

She placed one last sloppy kiss along the side of his cock. Her hand, lightly cupping his balls, eagerly slid back to his penis; now that there was a little moisture there, she could more eagerly stroke him to hardness. And as she fisted him, he muttered his approval. "That's good," he told her, the "good" coming out so slowly as though there were at least six or seven o's in the word.

She smirked, though he, with eyes closed, took no note of her satisfaction. If he thought that was good, she would love what she planned on doing next. She ran her tongue along his swelling prick toward his head. All the while, she kept stroking him.

"Keep going," he told her, gripping her ass tightly, as though that was going to encourage her (it did).

For a brief moment, she lapped at the tip of his dick. She did it gingerly, not wanting to give him too much for fear of things ending too quickly. Although she certainly didn't mind stopping things with oral sex, she wanted him inside her... in a _different_ way. And she didn't want to give him so much pleasure that he came within seconds.

But perhaps that was unavoidable, she thought. As she allowed the rest of her mouth to follow her tongue, he cried out in pleasure. His hips bucked lightly as she let his swollen member pass through her lips.

He couldn't help it. Her mouth was warm, warmer and wetter than he remembered it being from earlier. Of course, all he really remembered from earlier was the terrible way things had ended.

Fearing that his own mind would allow that memory to replay in his mind, he suddenly cleared his throat. His hands moving to her shoulders, he told her, "Stop."

Her hand still fisting his dick, she looked up at him, "'Stop"?"

"On your back."

The order left no room for discussion, which she understood immediately. Nevertheless, she didn't move. Well, all right, she _did_; she bowed her head once more and sucked the tip of his penis into her mouth. But unlike before, he didn't seem pleased.

"Cuddy."

She hummed in response as she pulled him in deeper, and though he was going to make her stop, he couldn't help but be tempted to let her continue. The vibrations she was creating in her throat were echoing in his body, making it nearly impossible to hold back a gasp. That he did was surprising, he thought.

That he could reach down and tug her off of him was nothing short of a miracle.

She had no choice but to let his now wet cock slip out of her mouth. She might not have wanted to do what he said, but she also didn't want to hurt him.

When she released him, she looked up in annoyance.

"On your _back_," he repeated, each monosyllabic word coming out in a halting, serious-to-the-point-of-angry voice.

But once again she didn't move. "What are you going to do if I don't?"

He could tell what she was doing. She was being so transparent with the way she was trying to provoke him. And he knew precisely what she wanted – she wanted it to hurt – which was why he had no intention of letting her force his hand.

He wasn't _against_ giving it to her roughly. But if the whole point of her behavior in these times was to give him the upper hand, he thought that it defeated the purpose to give her expressly what she wanted.

Still, he couldn't help but cater to her needs a little bit.

His hands gripping her forearms tightly, he physically pulled her off of him and pushed her down onto the mattress. "Don't move," he warned.

"Or what?" she challenged playfully.

He sighed and stroked her stomach. Not for very long – all the talk about pregnancy filled the act with all sorts of potential deeper meaning that, when recognized, forced his hand to her thigh. "Just relax."

She shifted on the mattress a little bit. She was clearly trying to do what he was telling her, but it was hard, and he could practically feel the tense energy radiating from her form.

"Relax," he repeated, spreading her legs with his hands. "Close your eyes."

She didn't want to, but the stress from work and Rachel and everything else was wearing on her quickly. And if House wanted her to close her eyes, if only to avoid getting more stressed (which would happen, because they would fight), she would do that.

"Fine."

"You're cranky," he commented, leaning down to lick her pelvic bone.

She jerked in surprise, controlling herself just enough so that she wouldn't accidentally hurt House. Oh, part of her absolutely felt that he deserved it. But the rest of her was far too focused on the long, wet trail his tongue was creating along her body.

So of course he had to stop.

One of his hands was warmly rubbing her knee when he suggested, "Maybe I should just put you to bed now – you know, since you're acting like a –"

Her eyelids fluttered open. "I'm not acting like a child."

He paused for a moment before responding, "Yeah, that doesn't convince me."

"Are you actually planning on having sex with me, or are you just interested in toying with me?"

Shifting on the bed, House curled up next to Cuddy. His head on her pillow and now right by her ear, he said quietly, "You know me better than that."

He slipped his hand down her body leisurely. There was no way she didn't know where he was headed, and he wanted the anticipation to eat away at and supplant the tension she'd been victim to all day, thanks to work and her daughter.

It worked.

Even before he touched Cuddy, he could tell that she was falling prey to what he wanted; by the time he circled her belly button with his index finger, she let out a little grunt. Though it was one of frustration, it was an indication that she didn't want him to take his time. The fact that, the second his palm brushed against her mound, she was spreading her legs as widely and lewdly as they could go just reinforced that idea.

His fingers searching for her clit, he kissed her ear lightly and whispered, "I always take care of my pussy, don't I?" He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear just in time to see her swallow hard. The proof right before him, he could see that his words and actions were getting to her.

His middle finger circled her opening, each loop more insistent than the last. He wasn't hurting her, of course. She hadn't exactly been wet when he'd started, but everything he was doing was getting her juices going.

"You didn't answer my question," he pointed out as though he disapproved of her lack of response.

"I..." She shook her head a little, as though she didn't even really understand what the question was.

His thumb lightly stroked her clitoris, the tight little bud now straining for her touch. This too he stimulated in little circles. But he didn't apply nearly as much pressure; he didn't need to, of course. He didn't know if she was just that easy or if the years she'd gone without sex had made her easy, but what he _did_ know was that she was quick to orgasm, especially when there was direct stimulation to her clitoris. And though he normally liked using this to his advantage, he _didn't_ want her to come right away.

He wanted her to feel it in her entire body first.

So he made circles that were just slightly too wide, slightly too obtuse. She would feel it; it would drive her nuts. But it wouldn't be what she needed.

"Do you need me to repeat the question?" he asked tauntingly as he moved his face closer to her neck. He wanted to be as close to her as possible. Though he was usually one to advocate personal space, in this instance, he wanted absolutely nothing separating her from him. He wanted to know, to _feel_ each shift in her body. He wanted her to feel completely and helplessly exposed to him.

"I..." She chuckled quietly,_ nervously_.

"Hmm." His lips pressed to the space where her shoulders and neck met, he hoped she felt it. "I think I do need to repeat myself."

He was patronizing her, and she knew it. There was no way she didn't, he thought. But he was hardly ashamed by the fact. If anything, he was purposely being condescending; though she would undoubtedly hate that kind of behavior in any other area of her life, he knew she was oddly turned on by it in this one.

"Don't worry," he cooed. "I won't hold it against you too much."

He slipped one finger inside of her. She gasped a little, her walls clamping down on him as hard as she could. God, she was tight, he thought. "I get that it's hard for you," he said slowly, withdrawing his finger with equal languidness. "It's difficult to concentrate when you know you're going to have your pussy stuffed in a couple minutes."

Cuddy tried to laugh at his language; it was ridiculous, admittedly. But she didn't actually laugh. As he pushed his finger back into her insistently, the giggle she'd been trying to utter morphed into something that sounded more like a hiss.

"But I do want an answer," he said kissing her neck, her shoulder, and then her jaw. Little pecks peppering her in odd places, it made her reluctant to look at him. Obviously she didn't want him to stop. But when he cupped her jaw with his hand, thumb on her chin, and forced her to look over at him, she was forced to deal with the situation head on.

Her voice breathless, she asked, "What was the question?"

He let go of her jaw. Now that she was looking at him, he knew that she wouldn't look away until he told her to. Though obedience had never been her strong suit, nor something he wanted from her on a daily basis, when it came to sex... submission was something she liked to dabble in with perfect mastery. No, she wouldn't look away. She would do exactly what he wanted, because it was what she needed right now.

Truth be told, House wasn't sure if that was a curse of a gift. Having complete control was incredibly hot, but he was also always mindful that he couldn't push _too_ far. Obviously he would push her boundaries a little bit; she liked that. But there was always the risk of scaring her, hurting her, going too far with her that made this specific kind of encounter something he was hesitant to have on a regular basis with her.

On the other hand, he supposed she was aware of those facts. She couldn't be so ignorant as to _not _think that handing complete control over to someone else put her at risk for being asked to do things she wasn't necessarily comfortable with. The fact that she so rarely let _anyone_ have _any_ control over her choices and actions he took as proof enough that she understood how easily things could turn for her. And she must have been equally aware that he feared his ability to control himself, because she didn't ask – well, she never _asked –_ for him to do this until she thought she was going to lose it.

Although he never said it, he appreciated her restraint – just as he hoped she appreciated his. Perhaps it shouldn't have made him feel reassured, but it did; it just made him feel like she was willing to go down whatever path he wanted to in these moments.

Using his now free hand to tweak one of her nipples, House pushed the lingering doubt from his mind. Things would be okay.

And with all the arrogance that knowledge provided for him, he repeated his question, "I said, 'I always take care of _my_ pussy, don't I?'" He emphasized the possessive pronoun, feeling in that moment as though it was important for her to know that she was absolutely, completely _his_.

But she didn't give him the yes or no she was expecting. Instead, she told him snidely, "I didn't realize you had one."

He pulled his finger from her cunt and stilled the thumb that had been circling her clit. If she was going to play that way, he wasn't going to make her feel good.

Purposely bumping his groin into her hip, his erection tickling her skin and the earliest trace of precum marring her pale flesh, he asked, "Does it feel like I have one on my body?"

She didn't answer the question; her hips were too busy shifting to try and rub herself against the fingers that had stilled in between her labia.

So he responded by pulling his hand away completely.

"Don't," she practically pleaded.

Inwardly she wanted to groan at the sound of her own voice. Though it was probably exactly what House wanted to hear, she hated the way she sounded like she was one step away from begging for a hand job.

"_I_ will do what I want," he told her admonishingly. "_You_ will do as I say, or I'm going to stop right now, and you can wait until morning to get off."

She wanted to punch him in the face; he was being such an arrogant little prick (so it was kind of business as usual), and she would have liked nothing more than to wipe that smirk, which he probably wasn't even aware existed, off his face.

But in the end, she stopped moving, fulfilling the silent expectation of her, because she knew that she wanted to get off. And in order to do that any time soon, she would need to give him what he wanted, and punching him in the face, though tempting, _probably_ wouldn't get her what she wanted.

"Sorry," she muttered, the word sounding as perfunctory and obligatory as it was.

"I'm sure," House said doubtfully.

Unfortunately for her, he made no move to touch her again. And she knew that there was only one explanation for it; he wanted her to ask for it – to beg. Peevish, she wanted to do anything but that. But again, giving him what he wanted in this instance was easier than trying to wrangle control from him.

Besides, did she really _want_ to be in charge right now?

The answer so clear in her mind (no), she didn't even have to think it.

"Fine." Her voice sounded like a grumble. "You're... good at... what you do," she said vaguely, wanting to avoid having to call herself his _pussy_ if she could. "Now will you please get –"

"That's not I asked."

She rolled her eyes. "Close enough."

"I don't think so."

"Yes, it –"

He looked at her in all seriousness. "I would rethink that logic," he warned. "Because if you don't do what I want... I might be tempted to do the same when I'm inside you and feeling the need to come way before you're ready."

There was an unspoken threat in his words, a threat that she was not oblivious to. And knowing that her hand had been forced, she sighed. "What do you want me to say?"

At that, his hand skated across the flesh of her thigh and back to her core. Two fingers immediately pushing inside of her with enough power to make her exhale loudly, he said nothing. She waited for him to say something; her gaze was intent on him, just in case she was supposed to pick up on some House version of Morse code. But he just kept pushing and withdrawing his fingers as though the conversation had never happened.

"House?" she asked, her voice unsure and shaky. She hadn't meant to sound so pathetic, but the way he was coaxing her fluids from her body, the way it felt like he was touching every bit of her, made her unable to control her emotions.

"Shhh," he whispered into her ear. His breath was hot against the delicate shell of cartilage, and long after he'd finishing hushing her, the hiss seemed to linger on within her.

All of a sudden, she felt hot and confused, her desire and his behavior making her feel a little drunk. "But –"

"It's okay," he told her gently.

"But –"

"Just enjoy it, all right?"

It was an easier command to say than to follow apparently. And honestly, he wasn't surprised by her confusion. He probably would have been too if the situation were reversed. After all, they weren't the kind to back off.

But he had.

That wasn't by any means normal for them. He knew it, which was why he could understand her confusion. They weren't the kind of people to back off. Especially when it came to dealings that only they were privy to, they rarely capitulated. In a way, there was no need to; they understood fully that they loved one another, that they were as screwed up and awful as two people could be, and that almost all (if not _all_) was forgivable. And he knew full well that making her say something she clearly didn't want to utter would be forgiven.

Honestly though, House just wasn't in the mood to do that tonight. He _could_, but more than anything, he thought it was in bad form to force your girlfriend, who was wonderful enough to say no to more babies, to say something she didn't find the least bit sexy.

Maybe it said something about him that he felt that there were times where it _was_ okay to make her do those things. But in his defense, she _let_ him do it, _wanted_ him to do it on occasion, so it wasn't like she was _really_ against it. He just thought that in this case, maybe... _maybe_ it was better to...

He didn't like the way he wanted to finish the thought. But after a couple seconds of hesitation, his mind on his thoughts and absolutely not on the way Cuddy was meeting his fingers' thrusts by grinding her hips against his hand, he decided that his initial ending was good enough – if not very clever and completely saccharine.

He didn't want to make her say the words, because he thought that maybe it was better to take the time to remind himself how lucky he was to have her, someone who was so perfect and so unlucky as to have _him_ in her life.

He wanted to cherish her, wanted to worship her body. He knew that it wouldn't even begin to do her justice, to do the way he _felt_ justice. But any attempt was better than no attempt at all, and he was nothing if not headstrong enough to try.

With that in mind, he focused once more on the task at hand... on the task covering his hand?

Her juices were flowing freely now, coating the fingers he was pushing into her repeatedly and dribbling down onto his palm and heel. He could smell her, that wonderful scent that he could only describe as _her_. Every now and then a moan catching in the back of her throat, he could tell that she had taken his order to enjoy it seriously.

He smiled and laved the outer shell of her ear. His voice rough and throaty, he encouraged her further. "That's right. That's good."

At that moment, he let his thumb slide along the ridge of her clitoris. And though it wasn't substantial contact, it was enough to make Cuddy agree with him. "Yes," she crooned.

"You like that? Hmm?" He kissed his way in short pecks towards her mouth, which was already slightly ajar.

Totally focused on the way her stomach seemed laden with that ever-winding need to orgasm, she was taken aback when she felt his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth.

He swallowed her "Oh," her surprise muted by his body and her sudden desire for it.

She was close. Despite all of the sex they'd had during the day, the way he was making her feel, the precision with which he was feeling all of her with just the perfect amount of speed, destroyed any notion of "too much." His thumb on her clitoris stroking her in soft touches, it didn't feel like she'd come several times today.

It didn't feel like she'd _ever _had sex.

Her thirst unquenchable, her need a force greater than her own body, she reached for him. She needed him, _all_ of him at that moment. His fingers, his mouth, it wasn't enough. She needed more than the stubble burning her and the thumb setting her ablaze in a whole different way.

_This_ just wasn't enough.

But the hand on his hipbone woke no sense of exigency inside of him. And it just figured, she thought almost bitterly; he was the one who could fuck almost the second it had been suggested. But now he was the one who wanted to take his time when she wanted to hurry things up.

She pulled away from him. "Please," she urged.

"Not yet," he told her, adding a third finger to the other two.

Immediately, she felt fuller, her body stretching to accommodate him. _Now_, he was really touching every bit of her; now she felt as though she couldn't take any more. She just wanted him, all of him. "House," she told him, aiming for a voice that was stern enough to show that she wasn't kidding.

"I want you to come first," he told her, reaching for her breast once more.

His hand was warm against her soft flesh as he cupped her. A bead of sweat dislodged itself from underneath the curve of her chest and slipped lazily down her ribs. She hadn't even realized he'd made her that hot, that... _unconscious _to what her body was doing. But as the wet sensation tickled her, she was forced into feeling all sorts of other sensations – ones that didn't originate between her legs.

There was sweat between her toes and fingers, pooling along her back. The rational part of her couldn't help but think that sleeping tonight would be particular miserable, but she didn't really care about damp sheets. She _did_ care about getting off.

And if House wanted her to come before he had sex with her...

She supposed she couldn't disappoint him.

As he tugged at the nipple trapped between his fingers, she hissed, "Well, if you insist."

He kissed her again. It was soft, short and simple. "I do." His forehead resting against hers, he explained in a tone that left her clit throbbing, "I want you so wet for me, Cuddy."

She squeezed the muscles around his fingers. "I'm not wet enough for you?"

"You're getting there," he admitted. "Just a little bit more."

"And then?"

The question had barely had enough time to reach his ears before a loud groan followed. He thought he must have hit a particularly sweet spot, because she was so much more flush now than she had been seconds ago.

He pulled again at the nipple in his grasp. It was behaving nicely, hardening into a delicate peak from his ministrations. "You know what happens next."

"Not with you," she muttered.

Normally, she would have said that as a complaint. But this was more teasing, as it was hard to be too angry with the man who was getting you off.

He leaned down, so that he could rub his nose against her clavicle. The bone had always been prominent, but these days, it was much more visible – thanks to her new exercise regime. And to be honest, it made her look... more vulnerable, more... fragile to him. But he wouldn't ever complain about it to her; she was thin but not to the point of harming herself, and he wasn't going to make her self-conscious about one of the few ways (though it was decidedly less fun) of relieving the stress that always seemed to overwhelm her.

Against her flushed skin, he said, "Good to know I don't bore you."

She panted as he kissed her skin and tasted her sweat. "You could... _never_ bore me," she told him in halted tones.

"I don't know." He pretended to be doubtful over that fact. "How many minutes have I had my fingers in you, and you haven't come?"

She shook her head as best as she could without accidentally smacking him in the face. "Close," she reassured, straining for more sensation. "I could come if you were inside me."

He scoffed. "I am inside of you."

At that, she practically growled, and he knew that she was much closer than he'd originally thought. Because if she were this frustrated over some stupid remark, then she was either ready to orgasm or so not even remotely close to that. And he would have had to have been foolish to think the latter was even an option at this point.

"Not the way I want," she whined. "Harder."

"God, you are just full of complaints." He didn't actually care that she was whining, of course, but he was a little surprised at her commitment to it. "Maybe you should just keep your mouth closed until –"

"Screw you."

"You are. You _will_," he told her firmly. "As soon as you come, I will be right there."

Her eyes fluttered shut, a subtle indication that what he'd said had done something for her, had turned her on.

He decided he could work with that.

"That's right," he said, rubbing her clit harder. "The second you come, I am going to spread your legs and take you." He ran a thumb over her nipple, his palm cupping her breast with enough pressure for her to feel him. "I'm not going to care how sensitive you are. I don't care if you're not ready. The second, your pretty, tight, warm little box squeezes my fingers, I'm going to penetrate you," he told her, nipping at her collarbone. "Do you understand me, Cuddy? I'm going to give you the best pounding you've ever had, baby."

"Yes," she moaned, liking where this was going. His words flashed in images before the inky darkness behind her eyelids. She could see everything he was talking about – her cunt still trying to adjust from an orgasm being forced to take him inch by inch inside of her sensitive body.

She wanted _that_.

"You feel that?" he asked her, pressing his penis into her hipbone. "That's all for you, and like a good girl, you're going to take it over and over," he said. He emphasized the overs, his voice louder and the words in time to his fingers thrusting inside of her. "And I'm not going to stop until I come inside you, deep inside you."

She couldn't take anymore.

The fingers on her nipple tweaked her insistently. The fingers inside of her pumped as hard as they could. Each motion met with the downward motion of her hips, she was matching him thrust for thrust. His thumb rubbed her clit in circles that echoed through her body as though he had been skipping rocks and she was the body of water. Every ripple of pleasure coursed through her body. Each one larger than the last, she felt her entire body vibrate with that energy until the ripples had mixed and mingled together and there was no way to separate each pulse from the other.

Her fingers digging into the sheets, she came to the sound of his words. Her muscles clenched his fingers tightly, so tightly that he stilled his thrusts.

He had said that the second she had an orgasm, he would fuck her. But in the actual moment, House was a little more forgiving, allowing her to ride out her orgasm with all the help he could give her without hurting her.

His thumb moved away from her clit, so that he could stimulate her without direct contact. The rest of his fingers still, he let her rock herself through the rest of her orgasm patiently.

When she'd stopped moving, her body settling on the bed once more, he withdrew his hand from her. And eagerly he moved on the bed, so that he was once more between her legs. The show she'd inadvertently put on for him had made him harder, much harder, than the direct stimulation of her mouth on his dick had or ever could. Perhaps that sounded odd, but there was quite frankly nothing sexier than watching his girlfriend come.

Correction, he thought within seconds; there was nothing sexier than watching his girlfriend recovering from an orgasm as he entered her.

_Nothing_.

She whined a little (in a good way) as he pressed the head of his penis against her labia. She was wet against him, that sticky sound of her juices coming into contact with his flesh like music to his ears. Using his hand to guide himself, he pushed himself inside her. Her muscles were still contracting, and now they were squeezing him in a way that almost made him lose it right then and there.

Unable to control himself, he fell forward onto his elbows and thrust all the way in.

She screamed.

Not loudly, not in a you're-hurting-me sort of way, not even in surprise; this was a shout of the good kind; though hard to describe, it was something she only did when she was so overwhelmed (again in a good way) by the desire inside of her. It meant that she was almost instantly ready to come again.

Her body shaking underneath him, he knew that, no matter how quickly he came, she would come away satisfied.

Withdrawing from her, he said before pushing himself back in, "See? I said you would get what you wanted."

She nodded her head in agreement, her arms wrapping themselves along his shoulders. "Yes."

Cuddy wasn't really answering the question. She was far too interested in what he was doing to her body than to even paying attention to what he was saying.

And he knew that – and contemplated using it to his advantage. If she wasn't going to listen, then he could safely say whatever it was he wanted to say without fear of repercussions.

His hips rocking back and forth, her slickness tight all around him, he said in between grunts, "Love you."

It was such a false thing to say. He _did _love her, _very much_, but he realized that it was easy to say those words to someone who was letting you go ball deep. It was also easy to say the words when she wasn't listening.

"Harder," she moaned, her hands moving to his ass. As she cupped him, her nails dug into him. "More."

But instead he slowed down, taking her in languid, long strokes. It wouldn't be hard to come quickly. The way her mouth hung open and a few strands of dark hair clung to her pale skin; her nipples taut and yearning for his mouth; her body, sopping wet and hot, tight around his penis – it would have been easy to fall apart now and never look back.

However, he wasn't ready for that to happen. He didn't want it to happen, because he never wanted this to end.

"House," she insisted. "Don't..." She licked her lips. "Do it right," she said vaguely.

He refused on principle to do what she wanted. "You're awfully whiny," he told her. As though punishing her, he took one of her nipples in his mouth. Giving her just the slightest hint of teeth, he felt her reaction; her muscles clenched him, almost painfully so.

And she came again, her body entire body arching off of the bed (as best as it could underneath his weight anyway). Her head resting on his shoulder as he continued to pump, she couldn't see his face of triumph when she shouted, "Oh God."

She was practically clamped around him in every way imaginable. Her arms had moved once more and were wrapped around his upper back; her legs were slung tightly over his hips; her internal muscles rhythmically tensed and released against him.

Her breath was hot on his shoulder, and he felt completely trapped by her. He couldn't thrust into her with as much ease now; she was clinging to him, which made pulling out of her nearly impossible.

But House didn't mind. The way he was practically wearing her was enough of an aphrodisiac to make the short thrusts he had to make more than pleasurable.

He wanted to make fun of her, wanted to point out that she'd been wanting him to go harder and he hadn't needed to. He wanted to but couldn't. He could feel his own need quickly becoming too great for him to handle; his balls swayed heavily against her ass; his nipples were impossibly hard, though she hadn't touched him. Each nerve ending on his skin seemed to be stimulated by her mere presence. He wanted to make fun of her, but he wanted to come inside of her more.

House grunted loudly at the idea of it. Though they'd had sex plenty today, there was never going to be a time where filling her with his come _wasn't_ going to be something he wanted to do.

She must have felt the same way, because at that moment, she told him loudly, "Keep going."

"I'm trying," he said through gritted teeth.

"I want you to come. In me."

He wanted to mockingly ask her if there were really any other place he was going to do that but didn't. Words were lost to him when compared to the feeling of the cunt he was pumping. She was soaking wet, coating him with the proof of her attraction for him. And growing inside of his body was some proof of his own for her.

Rocking against her, he drove into her as far as he could, as hard as he could - as though there were some place of her he hadn't touched, she thought to herself. Or would have thought to herself if his thrust hadn't set off another orgasm for her.

She was loud, unconsciously, explosively loud in crying out, "Yes!"

The feeling tunneling in on her quickly, it was met with House coming inside of her. A long "Oh" escaping him, he drove himself into her. His semen spraying her in long, generous pulses, she cried out again as her body milked him of everything he had.

He sagged against her. Exhausted he could barely hold himself up, thanks to their mind-blowing sex, and she was still coming down from her high as he pressed her into the mattress.

It felt good at first, to have his weight on top of her. She liked the feeling of being unable to escape him (at the moment anyway). But it quickly became a problem. He was making her hot, _sweaty_. "Hey," she told him quietly.

She didn't even have to finish the words before he rolled off of her. Her eyes watching him, she was a little surprised that he didn't simply move to his side of the bed.

Granted, getting up to brush your teeth before sleeping wasn't exactly odd; she was just surprised that he didn't feel the need to strut like a peacock about the number of orgasms he'd given her. That he _wasn't_ doing that made her suspicious to the point that she felt obligated to follow him into the bathroom.

However, she only had to peel herself off of the damn sheets to understand what was going on.

Looking at her side of the bed, she could see that it practically _wet_ with their combined sweat. And though it _was_ her side of the bed, she didn't want to sleep in _that_. The simple solution would be to make him switch sides.

And it suddenly became clear why he'd nearly bolted from the bed seconds after coming inside of her. He didn't want to give her a chance to steal his side.

Well, _that_ just wasn't going to happen.

But in the end, it did. She'd been too slow, had too much to do in order to beat House to the sought-out side of the bed. And by the time, she'd put on pajamas, he was already nestled under the covers with a victorious smirk on her face.

"Switch sides with me?" she asked nicely, hoping that _maybe_ she could appeal to his better nature.

"_Nope_."

Apparently he didn't _have_ a better nature.

"Come on."

"Sorry."

She stomped over to his side of the bed and yanked the sheets down. "I had sex with you _in a school_."

He looked up at her as though he'd forgotten. "How many orgasms did you just have?" She growled, and he said over top of the noise she was making, "I don't think you want to use sexual performance as a –"

"Shut up and move," she snapped.

… Well, all right, it came out more of a whine, but she was okay with that.

"Not gonna happen." He patted the space next to him on the bed. "So just park those sweet –"

"Never mind."

At that point, she realized that he would never share with her. And too exhausted to fight him any longer, Cuddy simply capitulated and crawled under the covers that had yet to dry.

It was _miserable_. He was happy next to her, but she was hot and uncomfortable, despite the season. And the longer she thought of her situation, the longer she lay in the darkness not saying anything, the more her mind was allowed to wander to other unpleasant things.

"House?" she asked, trying to push the dark thoughts out of her mind.

"Not trading," he muttered into his pillow.

She shook her head, concern for her job and her daughter filling it already. "That's not what I mean."

He exhaled loudly. "What?" She hesitated to say anything, not knowing what she should really tell him, and this fact just made him repeat (albeit with agitation), "What?"

"Never mind."

He muttered something under his breath that she couldn't really hear, though she could assume it was something about how annoying she was. "Just tell me."

And she didn't know why she did end up saying something. Later on, she would claim exhaustion, but in reality, she didn't know why she opened her mouth. Maybe it was because of the safety she found in the darkness.

Whatever the reason, at that moment, she couldn't help but say, "Just… tell me things will be all right."

"Everything's going to be fine," he said hastily.

"Forget it."

"What do you want me to say?" he asked in frustration.

She rolled away from him, turning her back on him. "Next time," she said bitterly. "Try to sound like you mean it."

It was only hours later, long after he'd fallen asleep, that she realized he _had_ meant it.

She just hadn't believed him.

_To be continued_


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Notes: I apologize for taking so long to update. Unfortunately my real life has thrown me a lot of curveballs lately. Hopefully though I will be able to update regularly from here on out. Thanks for sticking with this piece despite the wait lately between chapters. Also thank you to huddyholic, MissBates, TrudyGill23, IHeartHouseCuddy, Sydney, Ashville, Temo, scullyschik, jehabib1, lin12344, red blood, Josam, anon004, xxClouds, EllieShelly, dmarchi, Jane Q. Doe, Huddyphoric, tuckp3, newsession, and lhoma320 for taking the time to read and review. I never expected so much feedback and support when I started this. Thank you for proving me wrong.

_Disclaimer_: _House is the product of people far more talented than I am._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Ten: [Dis]comfort**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

The night wore on slowly, the passing of time feeling long and drawn out to Cuddy. Gazing through the inky darkness up at the ceiling, she knew she was the only one with open eyes at the moment. Rachel was curled up in her bed down the hallway; House was sleeping next to Cuddy – unknowingly taunting her and her apparent insomnia.

It wasn't the sheets. She'd complained about them, but they'd dried, and they weren't the problem. It wasn't House's snoring. Loud though it was, it was something she could usually ignore, especially when she was tired. And frankly, given the amount of sex they'd had today, she was _tired_.

But she couldn't sleep.

Maybe it was pointless to even pretend like she didn't know why that was. Obviously she _did_. She couldn't sleep, because she was stressed, _nervous_. Everything was falling apart, and she could _feel_ it - could actually _feel_ her life disintegrating. It was worse now, when there was nothing to distract her from that fact.

She tried hard to rid herself of the thought, of the idea that the world was going to come crashing down in the next twenty-four hours. But rolling over for what seemed like the hundredth time, she realized that wasn't going to be happening any time soon.

"Would you stop?" House mumbled, his quiet voice booming in the silence.

Cuddy rolled over again so that she could look at him. "What are you talking about?"

"The rolling around," he said with a tired flick of the hand. "I feel like I'm on a boat."

"I'm sorry. I can't –"

The "sleep" she was going to say was swallowed by his order – "Come here."

He patted the mattress beside him.

"It's not the sheets," she said, thinking that he was only sharing his side of the bed out of guilt for making her take the unsavory side.

"Didn't think it was."

So then he knew she was upset, she deduced, which just made her even more reluctant to go anywhere near him. "I'm fine," she told him in a voice that wasn't nearly convincing enough.

"Didn't say you weren't."

"You don't need to _comfort_ me," she said with disdain.

He shrugged. "I was just cold, wanted to warm up with your sweater puppies."

For a brief moment, Cuddy said nothing. Although she knew she probably needed to, she couldn't help but wonder if it were better to keep fighting him or to do what he wanted. If she were to keep pushing him away, she knew he too would push. But if she were to capitulate right then and there, he would be smug.

Or maybe not, she conceded; _maybe_ he would reach into that well of human kindness that ran deeply within him. However, _she_ would still feel awful about it. Even if he were nothing more than a loving, supportive presence (like that would happen), _she_ wouldn't take it that way. She would just see it as a confirmation that she was acting like a child, too insecure and desperate to self-soothe.

But her indecision was the tipping point for him.

"All right," he said tiredly. "You won't bring them to me… I'll come to them."

She could feel him shifting on the bed, a sign that he was going to do exactly as he was threatening. And she responded by telling him, "Fine."

Unceremoniously – hell, maybe with even a little animosity – she rolled over. Her head on his chest, she curled her body around his.

His t-shirt was warm against her cheek, she thought sleepily, though it did little to curb her agitation.

Okay, maybe it did that a _tiny_ bit. But she wasn't interested in letting _him_ know that. Instead, she muttered, "How you can be so pushy when you've just woken up –"

"I've been awake for a while," he admitted quietly.

Cuddy sighed. "I woke you up?"

"I can't sleep when you're anxious," he told her. One of his hands cupping her hip, he added, "You make it impossible."

"Then sleep on the couch."

"So you admit it."

Cuddy frowned in confusion. "What?"

"You're anxious."

"More like annoyed."

His free hand stroked her cheek. "You'll be fine."

"I _am_ fine."

He smirked into her hair. "You almost sold me on that one."

"Shut up."

"I'm just saying – I'll be convinced any day now."

Cuddy started to roll away, but he refused to let her go. Holding her to him, he was more than prepared for her resistance. "Let me go."

"Don't think so."

"_House_."

"And now you're snapping at me," he said through a sigh. "So you've _more_ than demonstrated how okay you are."

"I always snap at you."

"No kidding."

"Shut up." He could feel her smile pressed into his t-shirt.

"There you go again."

Settling against him once more, Cuddy told him, "If you're trying to make me feel better by being an obnoxious pain in the ass, it's not working."

It _was_ actually. She would deny it, so he wasn't going to say anything about it, but he knew she _was_.

Smugness flowing through him, he pointed out snidely, "And I thought you were feeling fine."

She sighed. "I am."

"You'll get the money."

She didn't say anything for a couple minutes. He could tell that she wasn't asleep; she was still too tense for that. What he couldn't decide was whether she was actually being so foolish as to think she could pretend to be asleep or if there were some other reason for her behavior.

"Well?" she eventually asked.

"What?"

She looked up in surprise. "No joke about me being Jewish and therefore naturally able to con people out of their money?"

"I'm tired. Give me a good night's rest, and I'll come up with something."

She rolled her eyes before laying her head back down. "I can't wait."

"You'll get the money," he repeated, stressing each word to show her that he was confident.

And honestly, at that point, she was pretty confident about that aspect of things as well. In fact, there was now no doubt in her mind that she _would_ get a check without very much effort. But that was the problem.

"It's not about procuring the cash," she muttered without even thinking.

It was stupid, literally thoughtless, to admit such a thing, because it naturally prompted House to ask, "Then what is the problem?"

She stiffened at the question. Telling him the truth would automatically lead to a huge fight – a _huge_ one, one that would prevent them from getting any sleep.

On the whole, House didn't have many opportunities to be jealous of other men; she wasn't _un_attractive, but her job title had a way of scaring interested parties off. When it didn't though, House was… unbearable. And he would be that the second he found out that she was meeting John, which was why she wanted to postpone that conversation for as long as possible.

But then… what should she say _now_?

She could feel him looking at her for an answer. _Literally_ she could feel his gaze as though it were an actual physical presence. And panicking in response, Cuddy blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Rachel."

"Rachel? Rachel's fine."

But that wasn't exactly true. And now that Cuddy had mentioned her daughter, it was all she could think of. Rachel wasn't fine, not by any means. Of course, when House said that she was okay, he meant okay for _her_.

However, _House_ hadn't come to dinner; _he_ hadn't seen her much at all after lunch, and so he hadn't seen any of what Cuddy _had_ noticed.

"She threw up," she said quietly. "Twice."

"She ate a lot of raw cookies, and knowing her, I'm guessing she had a lot of _baked_ ones as well."

"I didn't let her have any of the finished ones," Cuddy explained. "And after she burned her tongue trying to sneak one behind my back, she didn't want any."

"Still. She was eating the batter like –"

"She's got a yeast infection."

He could see where this headed. She was thinking that Rachel's medication needed to be readjusted, and though it was possible that Rachel's body had changed in some way, he wanted Cuddy to consider all of the other possibilities before going down that road. "There have been a lot of spandex and tights lately," he pointed out. "Though that does sound like something I would only see in a nightmare, I'm pretty sure that actually happened, so –"

"Don't do that," Cuddy snapped in irritation. "I'm not overreacting. Her glucose levels have been getting incrementally larger for the last week, and –"

"You _are_ overreacting… probably because you're worried about being fired tomorrow," he said knowingly. She would pretend like it was an absurd idea, but House knew otherwise; anxiety in one area of her life tended to bleed into every other area. "Not that that will happen," he added as an afterthought.

But his last minute attempt at making her feel better was only met with ire.

Angrily she sat up. "I know you like to assume that I'm a lame duck, inexperienced, overly emotional –"

"And you're doing such a good job at proving you're _not_ that last one."

"_Doctor_," she said with a sneer, her eyes narrowing angrily on him. She wasn't going to take the bait on his comment, but in that look, it was absolutely clear that she wasn't pleased. "But I _am_ actually a pretty good endocrinologist and –"

"And you don't think that that might color your perspective on Rachel's health," House replied with only the slightest hint of a doubt. "You don't think that it's worth considering _that_ before you force her to submit to painful –"

"Drawing blood, House," she interrupted, shaking her head. "Don't make it sound like I'm –"

"She's five, and you know she hates blood and doctors and hospitals, which is why I'm telling you: you should _think_ about the road you're heading down before you take a wrong turn and run over some fluffy squirrel and…." He sighed. "The metaphor got away from me there, but you know what I mean."

"You're tired," Cuddy said quietly.

"I'm not wrong."

Her body slumped against his once more. "I know."

"You should sleep on it," he told her, one of his hands warmly rubbing the space between her shoulder blades. "We're both tired."

"I know," she repeated, sounding more exhausted than she had only moments ago. "I need a vacation," she blurted out, burying her face in his t-shirt. Her voice muffled, she suggested, "Lets go some place warm."

He smiled a little and kissed her hair. "Much as I'd like to see you in a bikini, I'm going to assume that you're talking like this, because you're tired."

"I mean it," she mumbled into his chest. "I want sand… and a sunburn. And drinks with little umbrellas."

It wasn't ever going to happen. He knew that as much as she must have. It was never going to be that way. Oh, he didn't doubt that she wanted a vacation; he was sure that she did, just as he was sure that it would never happen. She might have wanted to go away for a while, but she would never give herself the permission to have that luxury. Between Rachel and work, Cuddy would _never_ do what she was talking about. Instead she would waste vacation days on awful medical conventions or even more tedious trips to her sister's, and neither of those things involved Cuddy in a bathing suit two sizes too small for her ass.

"Never gonna happen," he told her knowingly. "And it's very wrong of you to tempt me with –"

"It's your own fault for thinking about me in a bikini. I never said anything about –"

"You mentioned sand."

"And in your deranged little mind, sand means –"

"Seeing you half-naked, yes." He nodded his head for emphasis.

She raised her head just enough so she could look at him. "Tell me something; is there anything I could mention that _wouldn't,_ at some point in your thought process, make you think of me half-naked?"

"Probably not."

"Okay then."

"All the more reason for you to –"

"What?" she asked tiredly.

"Go to sleep."

He sounded so annoyed that she couldn't help but think that wasn't what he was originally going to say. "'Go to sleep.' That's how you're finishing that sentence?"

"Yes."

Truthfully Cuddy debated whether it was worth pressing him on the matter. She was curious to know what he might have originally intended on saying. But that was all she was – _curious_. And getting an answer that would allay that feeling really didn't seem worth all the trouble it would naturally take to get such a thing from House. So instead she sighed. "Fine."

But ten minutes later, she was no closer to sleeping. And House must have known this, because he said with a sigh, "Go check on the midget, make sure she's, I don't know, _alive_, and then come back to bed."

"Don't talk like that," she muttered as she got out of bed.

"She'll be fine," he said, rolling over onto his stomach.

He waited to hear her footsteps retreating out of the room. But when that didn't happen, he couldn't help but turn his head to look and see what the issue was.

It was immediately apparent what it was; she was just standing there, looking at him with dismay. And as soon as his gaze was on her, she told him, "I wish you wouldn't do that."

She didn't elaborate, which forced him to say in confusion, "Right now, I'm doing at least ten different things you more than likely wish I weren't doing. You might need to be more specific than –"

"Make it sound like I'm overreacting every time I show the slightest bit of concern about –"

"You think I'm being patronizing."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"I thought I was being reassuring."

"You weren't," she said dryly. "You were… tempting –"

"Fate?" he offered. "I don't think so."

She shook her head. "Well, that's how it sounds when you talk like that."

"I'm not tempting anything," he told her quietly.

"You are."

"No –"

"You _are_," she repeated angrily.

"_No_, I'm _not_." He was being more stern than he wanted to be, but having taken that tone, he knew there was no backing off now. "The universe doesn't work like that, and you _know _it, Cuddy. There's nothing that happened to Rachel that's the result of something you –"

"Please don't do this," she interrupted at that moment.

It was hard to see her face, but there was no missing the pained quality to her voice. Huskier, tighter, shakier, it gave away everything the darkness tried to hide.

"Go check on her," House said quietly. He could have pressed her further, pushed her to admit that part of her always overreacted when it came to Rachel's health out of fear that she would be punished if she didn't react seriously enough. But he didn't do that. That was something she would need to admit on her own.

Choosing instead to walk away from the conversation, he wasn't surprised that she took the opportunity to escape. Had the situation been reversed, he would have done precisely the same thing – run away at the first moment possible. For that very reason, he didn't judge her.

Of course that didn't mean he didn't feel just the _slightest_ bit smug when she came back looking slightly more relaxed. He _did_ feel that way; if only because it had meant he was right about Rachel, he did feel a small desire to rub it in Cuddy's face. However, he _was_ an adult and supposedly a supportive boyfriend, so instead, he simply welcomed her with open arms as she crawled back into bed.

Well, she didn't really crawl back into the bed as much as she carefully draped her body on top of his.

In his own mind, this sounded much sexier than it was. Not that it _wasn't_ sexy; it was Cuddy, and as a result, every act, every move, every word she uttered could elicit some sort of desire from him. This was just not as sexy as it could have been – nowhere near that. Because this wasn't her lying on top of him to entice him into a much more fun way of touching tummies; this was "I'm going to sleep on top of you."

His hands squeezing her ass, he said quietly, "I think you missed the bed."

"You're warmer than the sheets."

"Okay."

Her feet tickled his shins as she said, "You can push me off if I'm too heavy."

"You're not."

"I'm not hurting you?"

"No." And that was the truth. She wasn't heavy or hurting him. She didn't weigh nearly enough to cause him any pain _now_. The morning would tell a very different story, but he was willing to suffer that if it meant that she would sleep now. "How was Rachel?"

"Fine," Cuddy answered with a sigh he could feel through his t-shirt. "She was sleeping."

"Good to know that someone in this house is," he said in a similarly breathy manner.

"House." It was as close to an apology as she could apparently get.

"It's okay."

She wanted to believe him. With everything that she had, she wanted to believe him.

But she couldn't.

He had been right earlier. There was no tempting of things going on, no bargain to be made with ephemeral beings. She knew that. In her heart, she understood that. And yet, every day, Cuddy also understood that she operated under those very ideas. If she worked harder, did better, inched closer and closer to perfection, some part of her believed that things _could_ be perfect.

Some part of her still felt the keen disappointment when they weren't.

The truly unfortunate part about that was that it meant, for Cuddy, that she would never feel _good_ about Rachel – or at least Rachel's health. The asthma, the diabetes, the thyroid – all of those things were problems that had no simple or foreseeable solution; it was about managing not mastering those conditions. They _couldn't_ be mastered or fixed. And because Rachel was a stubborn little girl who didn't fully understand what any of her medical problems meant, because she had _multiple_ conditions, even just _managing_ her illnesses was difficult work.

It was a fact that broke Cuddy's heart

It was a fact that made every other problem in her life, no matter how big, seem large enough to destroy her. She tried her hardest to convince herself that Rachel was okay, that she would _be_ okay. But it was impossible for Cuddy to contain that anxiety, impossible for her to ignore it and compartmentalize it – especially when every demon in Hell seemed to also sit on the hospital board.

"You're not sleeping," House interrupted.

"What?"

"You're not sleeping."

"I'm trying."

"You're tense. You need to relax."

Cuddy rolled her eyes and shifted on top of him a little bit as though she were trying to get comfortable. Truthfully, she was pretty comfortable pressed against House like this; he _was_ warmer than the sheets – she hadn't lied about that. His pajamas were softer too, the cotton of his t-shirt and pants well worn from use. And there was something nice about falling asleep with the sound of his heartbeat in her ear. Not that she was sleeping, not yet, but when she would, it would be nice.

"I'm trying."

"You're stiffer than an airplane blanket." She wiggled around some more. Which, truth be told, he liked. But since sex was the last thing he wanted right now (okay, maybe not the _last_), he instantly stopped her by grabbing her hips. "Speaking of stiff… you keep doing that and –"

She groaned – not the reaction he was anticipating.

"What?"

"No more sex tonight."

They were in agreement on that but still. "No? But we –"

"I know you like proving that you have the libido of a fifteen year old who's just discovered his father's Playboys, and I get it." She patted his chest as though he were a little boy. "It must feel nice to be able to prove what a big man you are."

There was no missing the fact that she was teasing him. And though the mocking pout she was giving him was kind of hot, he wasn't particularly enjoying what she was saying. "I –"

"Probably want to brag to Wilson and your staff and anyone else who will listen. I know," she said with a nod of the head. "And that's fine. You go ahead and tell them what a _manly_ stud you are."

"This isn't about my ego."

She gave him a dark look. "Monday morning, you're going to strut –"

"I don't strut."

"Like a peacock," she continued without even considering what he was saying. "Strutting and… _singing_."

He shifted underneath her. "I don't –"

"You do. _God_, you do. I fully expect to hear Gilbert and Sullivan in the halls on Monday and see everyone looking at me for the rest of the day as though I've completely lost my mind for dating you." He opened his mouth to say something, but she stopped him. Pressing a finger to his lips, she was the one to speak. "And I'm going to look at them as though I am in absolute agreement with them… which I am more than willing to do, because I, for whatever reason, possibly the result of brain damage, love you."

Murmuring against her fingers, he said, "If you're trying to kill any interest I might have in having sex with you right now, I gotta tell you… it's pretty effective."

She exhaled and pulled her hand away from him. Replacing her finger with her lips, she kissed him briefly. "Good. Because I need a break – at least until the morning."

He gave her a look of annoyance. "Last I checked, I wasn't _trying_ to get any. _I_ was trying to sleep."

"I'm just saying," she told him calmly. "I'm going to start chafing."

"Oh, that's a good line. I'm gonna tell Wilson that." At that Cuddy rolled off of him. A little surprised, he couldn't help but ask her, "What happened to 'you're warmer than the sheets'?"

A half-smile on her face, she said, "Sounded like you wanted to be alone with your sexual prowess."

He followed her, spooning against her body. One of his hands sneaking underneath her shirt, he told her in a low voice, "Anything involving the word, sexual, should involve you too."

Her lips turned into a full smile. "You say that now, and the next thing I know, I'm measuring your penis."

"Hey, now there's an –"

"_No_."

"You're right," he admitted after a second. His free hand carding through her hair, he added, "We probably don't even have a ruler long enough to measure –"

"You're impossible." But he could feel and hear her slight chuckle as she said those words and knew that they were okay.

Knowing that, House kissed her neck. "Think you can fall asleep now?"

She sighed. "I don't know…. No."

"You've got to be tired."

"I am."

"You've been up for –"

"I know."

"Want me to get you something? Warm milk? Clonazepam? Vodka?"

She shook her head, the ends of her hair tickling his face. "I'm okay." When he pulled the covers up over her body further, she murmured, "You don't have to do that."

"I'm not trying to be nice," he said immediately. Actually, he _was_ trying to be nice, but he wasn't going to tell her that. Pride mattered in these things, he guessed, and he figured a lie would do more good than the truth. "Sooner you fall asleep, the sooner I do, so anything I can do to make that happen…."

"Right," she replied, sounding more exhausted than he thought he had ever heard her sound before.

He stroked her side gently. "Just close your eyes."

She listened but repeated herself. "You don't have to do that."

"I do. I'm a selfish man."

She bristled. "I know what you're doing."

"Go to sleep."

"I –"

"Don't worry about it," he told her in a low voice.

She did, of course. Everything he was doing was soothing, she couldn't deny it, but it did make her feel uncomfortable at the same time. As she tried to fall asleep, she knew that it was stupid. She knew she should have simply allowed herself to take comfort in what he was offering. But it was hard for her, hard to appreciate and accept something that she felt he shouldn't have to offer.

"Don't worry about it," he repeated, as though he knew what she was thinking. "Just sleep."

Cuddy wanted to fight the feeling. She wanted to push him away, say something, _do_ something to regain the pride she could feel slipping away. But it was a fight she couldn't win. His body warm against hers, his hands petting and rubbing and soothing what felt like every inch of her, she couldn't fight him. The sheets and bed and him so inviting, so soothing, she didn't have a chance in hell. As slumber quickly consumed her, in the back of her mind, she wondered when she'd last been tucked into bed.

House himself was asking that very question. One of his hands in her hair, the other moving around her back and side, he really wanted to know when Cuddy had last allowed anyone to do this for her. _Had_ she ever let anyone? Sure, her parents had more than likely done this when she was a girl. But _since_ then? He doubted Cuddy had permitted anyone to…

Tuck her in?

Hold her close and make sure she fell asleep?

He didn't exactly know how he should word what he was doing. After all, it wasn't like he was well practiced in… _this_; if Cuddy weren't used to being soothed, then he certainly wasn't used to being the one to do the soothing. He was more of an… irritant, to be honest, and, not that he _liked_ pissing off his girlfriend, but the fact remained that she didn't often require his emotional support, so he didn't feel as though it were necessary (or even desirable) to console her over every little thing.

That she had let him attempt such a feat _at all_ was proof enough that she was more upset than she was letting on. Rachel… work… it was all getting to her, and he was quite sure now that he hadn't really helped Cuddy at any point along the way today.

He hadn't intentionally set out to annoy her (for the most part anyway). But there was no denying that some of the events he'd had a hand in had just made things worse for her. Or maybe it was just the one he couldn't forgive himself for.

He'd hurt Rachel.

It had been accident, but he'd _hurt_ her. And Cuddy had forgiven him – or at least said that she had – but he wasn't as quick to forgive himself for it. Rachel might not have been hurt seriously but still.

He'd grabbed her.

He'd scared her.

And maybe they'd been able to move past that during the day, but right now, in this particular moment, House didn't feel good about it. He felt _awful_ about it, and the fact that it had made Cuddy's day worse only made him feel that much guiltier.

He supposed that was a triviality compared to everything else; making things harder for Cuddy didn't really compare to hurting Rachel. But it was the icing on top of the pile of crap – he knew that much.

Then again, he also knew that this wouldn't happen again.

He wouldn't let it.

Being Rachel's father would never happen, not if he could help it. But that didn't mean he wanted to be an unwanted presence in her life or the kind of person who scared her… who _hurt_ her. He didn't want to be the boyfriend of one woman and a monster to another all in the same house. He'd _never_ wanted to straddle that line, even if he had today.

And he wouldn't do it again.

Cuddy exhaled softly beside him. Immediately he stiffened, thinking that she might be awake. But after a few seconds, she hadn't woken up or moved, and he was relieved to see that she was still sleeping. She deserved it.

He liked to make fun of her, quite a bit actually. He liked to joke about her job, about how she wasn't a real doctor, but silently he understood that there was no way in hell he could ever do what she did. She was good at her job – amazing at it, and because of that fact, he could be good at his. In his eyes, she held his world together, and if he never admitted such a thing out loud, it was because he wasn't even sure he could put it into words properly. But inwardly, he knew exactly how important she was to him, just as he knew how hard she worked to make everything just right. And since nothing in their lives seemed to be simple, making things perfect (or as close to perfect as they could get) was no easy task.

Yes, he thought with sincerity, she deserved a good night's sleep and so much more. So much more that he couldn't necessarily give her, he realized. He might have wanted to – oh, he _wanted_ to, but he couldn't give her anywhere near what she deserved. He could never be the man with no complications, the one who could unconditionally agree to do what she wanted from or of him.

He was too screwed up for that.

And he knew she deserved more, but at the moment, helping her sleep seemed like all he could do.

At the thought, House pressed his face into her shoulder. She was too good for him, he thought, pulling her closer to him. She was too good, and if he kept having performances like the one he'd had today, she would realize it. As he slowly fell back to sleep, he told himself that he needed to remember just how lucky he was to have her in his life.

Unfortunately, he didn't remember that. When he woke up, he didn't remember that fact at all. To be fair, it was impossible to remember much of anything, what with all of the screaming and crying.

He woke up before he even had a chance to register what was going on. His eyes popping open, he was immediately assaulted with noise and movement and the bright light coming from Cuddy's bedside lamp. She was hastily shoving the covers off of her, her limbs scrambling to free themselves.

But she wasn't the one making the noise, he realized dimly.

It was then that he realized that Rachel was in the room, standing right next to the bed. And _there_ was the source of the screaming and crying.

In urine-soaked vivid pink pajamas decorated with brown squirrels holding yellow and purple flowers (why they were holding flowers, he didn't know, but they were, as stupid as that was), Rachel stood there. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, which were reddened from crying. She was sobbing for Cuddy, her entire body shaking with the effort. With each "Mama" she wailed, a shuddering gasp followed. The sound long and drawn out, it clearly said to House, who was still barely conscious, that she was so upset that she could barely muster up the ability to breathe.

As Cuddy pulled the kid into her lap, House decided that it wasn't an asthma attack. The way she was breathing made it seem at first glance as though that might be what was going on. But as consciousness grabbed a hold of him, he realized that she was too pink; she wasn't wheezing or coughing, and though an asthma attack would, understandably, be upsetting to _anyone_, Rachel had been through enough to stay somewhat calm. She would be anxious to breathe again (who wouldn't be?), but she wouldn't be crying and shouting Cuddy's name.

Not like this.

Which meant that _this_ was a panic attack.

He looked to Cuddy to see if she understood what was going on. But she didn't meet his gaze; her focus was completely on Rachel.

Inching over on the bed, he didn't say anything. It wouldn't matter what he said right now; Cuddy would be deaf to every point he could possibly make at this particular moment. So really, his only option was to move out of the way, lest he end up with Rachel's piss on _his_ pants.

He would have liked to point out how crappy things for him were when he was worried about getting the urine belonging to a five year old on his person. But again, Cuddy wasn't going to be paying attention, and Rachel certainly wouldn't be, so he made the point silently to himself and rolled away from them both.

He wasn't going to sleep.

If someone could sleep through this ruckus, he would have liked very much to meet that person and steal their soul… or something that made sense, House thought in confusion.

"Shhh," Cuddy whispered in Rachel's ear. "It's all right. Mommy's here."

Yeah, like that was going to stop the train wreck (or shut it up) that was in progress, he told himself miserably. Again, he would have said it aloud, but Rachel would have taken precedence anyway, so he kept his comments to himself.

Rachel, however, was decidedly not keeping _any_ sound to herself. Her face was buried in Cuddy's shoulder; her thumb was jammed now into her mouth, but she was still making more noise than anyone should have at this time of night.

He would have wished for earplugs, except he knew that those wouldn't do anything for him. Rachel was being _that _loud.

In his mind, there was no doubt that this was all over a bad dream. It might have sounded like she was being beaten or murdered to the neighbors. It might have _looked _like there was something else going on; wetting the bed could be the result of or an indication of polyuria and/or polydipsia, both symptoms of high blood sugar; the kind of sadness and anxiety she was currently displaying could indicate diabetic ketoacidosis. But he knew that wasn't what was going on. Rachel hadn't been drinking or urinating any more than usual – and it wasn't like wetting the bed was anything new for her. So he was content to believe, no matter what her behavior might have indicated on a superficial level, that this was a nightmare and nothing more.

Cuddy, however, was not as convinced. Rocking Rachel, she looked at him with dismay, with concern, and asked quietly, "Could you get me her meter and inhaler?"

How he even managed to hear her request over Rachel he didn't know. He supposed that there could be something to the fact that Cuddy was calm, and that made her words completely distinct from what Rachel was saying, but he didn't know for sure.

What he _did_ know was that Cuddy had already lost interest in him by the time he'd processed her words. He wasn't being particularly slow in understanding her, but in the milliseconds it took for him to comprehend what she was asking, she'd already turned her attention to Rachel.

The kid was still upset, alarmingly so. Again, he didn't think there was anything _physically_ going on with her. But it was hard to deny that she was getting herself worked up enough to _make_ herself sick. And Cuddy, convinced that her medical concerns were being addressed, fully launched herself into preventing Rachel from accidentally hurting herself. Problem was, House didn't agree that those medical tests and treatments were necessary.

He needed to tell her that, of course, but she wasn't paying attention. Instead, she was alternating between shushing Rachel and saying, "It's okay. Mommy's here. It's all right. Just calm down and tell me what's wrong."

It was a request Rachel couldn't even begin to follow, and understanding this, House felt like he was in the same boat as she was.

"Cuddy," he said softly. He didn't want to make things harder than they needed to be; he didn't want to start a fight, not now, not if he could avoid it. But Cuddy needed to know that _this_ wasn't physical. Because as soon as she realized and accepted that, the easier it would be to calm Rachel down and shut her up and the sooner they could all go back to sleep.

But Cuddy was reluctant, apparently, to receive this knowledge. Pressing several kisses to Rachel's temples and forehead, Cuddy was slow – _so_ slow – to look at him. And when she did, he could read in her eyes one word:

_Don't_.

He responded in kind with a look of exasperation, as though he were saying, "I'm not trying to fight. Stop thinking that I am."

And she must have understood that – or he was just reading into things – because she backed off. The warning in her eyes disappeared, the heated anger cooling off into something more amenable to his hesitation.

It was a look born from words she would never say. Words like that would never be spoken; she would never tell him, or at least not willingly tell him, that she knew she was being ridiculous. Over the years, if House had learned one thing, it was that she could be quite committed to her own insanity. Even if she knew she was wrong, she had the habit of defending herself anyway. He obviously couldn't judge her for that quality as he tended to do the same thing; however, in this particular moment, despite that part of her personality, despite the fact that she had been so defensive seconds ago, she was giving him a look that now said, "I know it's probably just a bad dream, but I need to make sure."

House thought briefly that it was odd that they could say so much to one another with just a simple look. But then on further reflection, he supposed it wasn't _that_ odd. They were, after all, nothing if not masters in subtext, and knowing each other for _decades_ had only provided them with a Rosetta Stone to one another's private language. The fact that they worked together, slept together, celebrated holidays (even lame ass ones like Purim) together – spent nearly every waking moment _together_ in some way – could only make this kind of conversation an inevitability.

But it still felt odd.

A little bit anyway.

They spent so much time bickering, bantering, or just downright arguing that it was easy to lose sight of the connection they did share.

Of course that made it sound like he thought they fought too much. He didn't. Sometimes someone who didn't know them very well – her friends, her sister, random people flitting through the hospital – would imply that they must have been nearing a break up; those _strangers_ would say that they must not have liked each other very much if they fought like that. And having heard those particular statements way too many times, House knew that none of it was even remotely true.

They fought, sure. They fought more than most couples probably. But what most people never understood was that House and Cuddy were okay with raising their voices and frequently being adversaries. In fact, a lot of the time, they found themselves _content_ to be under those circumstances, because…

They _liked_ the fight.

They enjoyed the challenge.

Never mind that work usually required them to get into it at least once a day. Never mind that they both took comfort in the fact that _professionally_ she could stop him from doing something incredibly stupid. On the most basic of levels, they simply enjoyed verbally sparring with one another.

Sure, there were times where it probably would have been nice to come home to a quiet house and a partner who only wanted to agree with you. But at the end of the day, he, at least, was willing to sacrifice that for the privilege of seeing first hand her mind at work; as attracted as he was to the rest of her, first and foremost, it was her brain that he liked.

He liked listening to her, liked hearing her thoughts, even when that meant listening to her say something he didn't want to hear. And because of that, because they enjoyed the word play, there were times when it was almost easy to forget that they had the ability to understand one another without speaking. But here they were, saying all that needed to be said without uttering a single word.

Well, all right, it wasn't without words completely. With all of the noise and ways for Rachel to distract Cuddy, House wanted her to know with total certainty that he was willing to play along. He still thought it was stupid, of course; he didn't think for a second that Rachel was having a medical emergency of any sort. But he _was_ willing to do whatever it took to ease Cuddy's nerves. So he said, "Okay," with a nod of the head.

For a brief moment, he contemplated leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek for reassurance. But he quickly decided against it. For sure she could have used it. He would have been stupid to think that at this moment, he was the only one feeling ill at ease. But at the same time, she was so intent on caring for Rachel that a kiss would have been seen as an unwelcome distraction. And that was the last thing he wanted to be.

That thought one that was firmly planted in his mind, he pushed the covers off of his body. He was willing to forego the kiss, but at that moment, as the cold air hit him, he suddenly felt resentful of having to get out of bed at all.

He'd been nice and warm, his leg only aching a little (which was to say that the pain was as bearable as it got for him). And now he had to part with all of that just so he could alleviate the concern stupidly imprinted in Cuddy's mind. He had to leave that sanctuary and for what – for a wild goose chase that would yield no geese or fowl of any kind.

But he'd said he would do it. He didn't want to get up, but he'd said he would. And the universal truth that everybody lied aside, his word with Cuddy, his word _here_ meant something. It meant everything… or at least it was supposed to. So he had to follow through on the damn thing.

The problem with that though was that he didn't get very far.

Correction: he wasn't _allowed_ to get very far.

His legs free from the bedding, he started to get up. But he didn't even have a chance to do much more than swing a leg over the edge of the mattress. Because the instant he did that, Rachel was on top of him.

_Literally_.

He had no idea why.

_No_ idea.

All he knew was that one minute he was getting out of bed, and _it_ was on top of him the next. And he had no rational reason as to why she would do this; he didn't know what it was she'd seen out of the corner out of her teary eyes that made her scramble for him.

And you know what?

He didn't want to know.

And it didn't matter.

It _didn't_. He was a man who liked to understand motivation, but he could see that trying to comprehend Rachel's behavior was about as useful in this particular instant as knowing how to cook puffer fish. Because as interesting as all of that might have been, none of it was going to get Rachel away from him any time soon.

Of course he could have been wrong about that. If you'd asked him five minutes ago if Rachel would ever cling to him, he would have said no – and he would have been _very_ wrong about that.

But he wasn't the only one.

Cuddy was thinking the same thing; if someone had asked her earlier what would happen when Rachel came running into the room, Cuddy would _not_ have said this. It was happening right before her eyes, but it felt completely unreal.

She'd had Rachel in her arms. She'd gotten House to agree to go get Rachel's inhaler – a feat, which was pretty amazing in and of itself, considering he'd been adamant about how ridiculous that kind of thinking was. Things had looked okay in that instant; Rachel had been upset still, but everything had felt pretty mundane.

And then it suddenly hadn't been.

House had been getting out of bed, and Rachel had seen this. And she clearly hadn't liked it. Wrenching herself from her mother's grip, Rachel had _lunged_ for House. She hadn't done it in an angry way; she hadn't been trying to attack him. If anything, it had seemed like she'd been desperate to be _near_ him.

She'd cried, _screamed_, "No!" And though Cuddy had tried to grab hold of her daughter once more, Rachel had managed to squirm away somehow. Her movements quick, it had been within milliseconds that she'd ended up in House's lap, her hands clinging to him tightly.

And now…

Cuddy didn't know what to do.

Rachel was still upset. That still needed to be resolved in some way. But now in addition to that, there was the problem of House, who looked absolutely…

_Terrified_.

She'd debated saying scared, but instinctively she realized that that word didn't even begin to describe the fear in his eyes. And it _was_ fear that she saw.

It would have been easy to miss or misdiagnose the well of emotion permeating his entire being. Fear was a feeling he rarely experienced and even more rarely let show on his face. He was neither prone to being frightened (this despite all he had been through) nor eager to let others see that side to him. But he couldn't hide _this_ from her. She knew him too well, knew all the signs to look for, and he was too distracted by Rachel to even begin to run interference anyway. Which meant everything Cuddy needed to see was laid bare for her consumption, whether he liked it or not. And looking at him now, she couldn't deny that he was both afraid and unsure.

Honestly, he looked like one of those animals you read about – the kind of creature that had been caught in a bear trap or something along those lines and had been so afraid for their life that they'd gnawed their own captured limb off.

Yeah, House looked _exactly_ like that, like he was prepared to chew off anything that would keep him trapped between Rachel and the mattress.

Part of Cuddy – the sleep-deprived part – wanted to be angry at him. He'd lived here for how long now? He hated the idea of being near Rachel so much that he couldn't even bear to have her on his lap? _Really_?

She wanted to be so angry at him. The logic was there; there was a reason to be mad, and part of her really wanted to be.

But she wasn't.

Maybe she was too tired to put forth the effort, but she wasn't angry. She wasn't _happy_ either; now instead of just dealing with Rachel, Cuddy was also going to have to talk House off the proverbial ledge. But she wasn't_ mad_. Because although she could have been, maybe even _should_ have been, she knew that, in his own way, he was trying. He was kind of awkward and not very good with Rachel, not very affectionate anyway, but the fact that he hadn't pushed Rachel off of him and run away screaming was proof that he was making _some_ sort of effort.

Was it enough? Not for Cuddy. She wanted more. Of _course_ she wanted more from him. Who wouldn't? Who _would_ prefer to have the guy and the child and no connection between the two? No one would want that. Cuddy certainly didn't.

However, she had known from the start that living with House and a baby would be… challenging. She had realized that he wasn't interested in fatherhood in the same way she'd understood that Lucas _had_ been. And when she'd made her choice, Cuddy had known precisely what kind of decision she was making. She hadn't been naïve enough to think that House would change his mind or cruel enough to insist foolishly that he did. She'd hoped – as she still did – that things would get better, but she hadn't started this relationship with daddy-daughter delusions. And though a very real part of her was discontent with the family dynamic, she knew she had to trust that she'd made the right decision.

For everyone.

It might not have made things perfect. How could it have really? She and House seemed to be the most screwed up people on the planet. They were as far from perfect as anyone could possibly be; their relationship could hardly be any different. And at this particular moment, it left her wanting.

_But_ it was still the right choice to make. And she was _completely_ sure of that fact, if only because she knew that, if she had to be awoken by her urine-soaked, screaming child in the middle of the night, House was the only person Cuddy wanted to share the experience with.

Even if he was participating in his own detached way.

Even if he looked ready to run away screaming.

_God_, he looked ready to bolt.

And with the way Rachel was clinging to him, the entire image, truth be told, was laughable. He was terrified to be close, and Rachel was desperate to be near, and her inability to see the horror in House's face was almost enough to make Cuddy burst into laughter.

However, she couldn't exactly find it in herself to do that. She could recognize the humor, but it wasn't nearly enough to make her forget the seriousness of the situation. After all, if Rachel – who seemed to want to be _near_ House – realized that he wanted her to get away from him, things would decidedly become very serious. Rachel would be heartbroken, and House would become defensive in the face of Cuddy's inevitable ire… and whatever had driven Rachel to want House to begin with would be completely forgotten about.

It would not be good.

And knowing that, Cuddy understood that she needed to calm both of them down as soon as possible.

At that moment, the phrase, easier said than done, came to mind, but she wasn't going to let that distract her from what she needed to do.

And the first step to making all of this right was to reassure House. That would certainly be difficult, as she would need to do it without actually openly trying to calm him down. As a matter of pride, he wouldn't want her to comfort him, especially not in front of Rachel. And Rachel herself was a factor to be considered.

Pretending for a moment that it was a fact – House was too distraught to care much about appearances – Cuddy was still sure that she couldn't be _too_ consoling. Because Rachel would witness it, would realize that House was upset, would slowly realize why, and again, that was something Cuddy wanted to avoid. So while truthfully, Rachel was the bigger concern, _he_ was the factor that needed to be addressed first. Because if he weren't calm, _patient_ enough to let Rachel be comforted, it would be game over. He would freak out and, in the process, make things worse for Rachel.

For all of them.

That possibility one Cuddy wanted to avoid, she scooted closer to both of them. She couldn't do this from her side of the bed. Her hips shimmying as she moved toward them, she realized that this would inevitably make House crave space even more. But there was no way around that.

Her knees knocked lightly against his leg. As close as she was ever going to get, tentatively she reached out for both of her companions. First, she touched Rachel, offering her a couple of back rubs.

"It's okay," Cuddy told them both, though her eyes only met _his_ gaze. And that was when she made a move for him. The same hand that had been on Rachel leisurely meandered downward, off the little girl's body, until Cuddy was lightly touching House's forearm. It wasn't as overtly reassuring as a handhold. But that was why Cuddy liked it. "Everybody needs to calm down."

Out of the edge of her gaze, she could see that Rachel was trying to listen. House definitely wasn't; in fact, it was doubtful he had even heard Cuddy. But her daughter, thankfully, was. Taking intentionally slow, deep breaths, Rachel was trying very hard to calm herself down. And though it wasn't immediately working, Cuddy could tell that it was gradually having its effect.

None of this was entirely surprising. House not listening to her was as unusual as a hospital housing sick people. Though he wasn't being disrespectful (their professional relationship required an implicit belief in one another), the truth was he rarely took instruction at the first opportunity. He would instead bypass her thoughts until his own way of thinking left him with no other choice. Rachel, on the other hand, didn't have enough faith or arrogance to ignore her mother. Unlike House, Rachel trusted the advice and rules given to her. True, she didn't always comply; she wasn't a perfect child by any means, but she also didn't seem to have the compulsion to disobey and disagree – not like House did anyway.

And like every child who had nightmares – or more importantly, like every child who'd had a medical emergency, she had been taught to try to remain calm and explain what was wrong. Again, Rachel wasn't perfect; it took a while for to get control of her emotions, and sometimes, she never did, but she tried, and the fact that she was trying was hardly surprising.

But it did come as a relief.

Okay, so House's behavior still concerned Cuddy. But if Rachel were able to take deep breaths, it meant unequivocally that this was no asthma attack. There might have been some other physical cause, but this meant that at least she was able to breathe. _And_ it meant that she would be able to say soon enough what was bothering her. Again, Cuddy understood that her daughter was only five, and she didn't have the understanding or terminology to say that she was hyperglycemic or anything remotely along those lines. But she would be able to describe, if terribly, if she was feeling sick, dizzy, etc; she would be able to guide Cuddy to what the problem was. And Cuddy was encouraged by that fact.

However…

As good as that was, there was still House to contend with, and the more time Rachel needed to calm down, the more likely it was that something bad would happen. Cuddy wanted to ignore that concern in her mind, but there was no pretending like they weren't already on borrowed time. Because they were – Cuddy was sure of it.

But at the same time, she was equally sure that she could manage.

Hardly a stranger to difficult situations, she was more than familiar with the nuances of serving two masters – or in this case, controlling two _children_. Handling them both wouldn't be easy, but deep down, she knew that the dread she was feeling wasn't wholly warranted.

She was capable of doing this.

Or so she told herself as she moved even closer to House. Her voice soothing, she kept saying to Rachel, "That's it. Deep breaths for Mommy. I need you to calm down so you can tell me what's wrong."

But as Cuddy lay her head down in the small space between House's shoulder and neck, it was clear that she was using her body to comfort him.

Admittedly that sounded dirty. _So_ to her own ears, it did, and she was thankful that House would never be privy to that thought. Had he been, she would have been teased mercilessly until he found someone or something else to mock.

What she was doing was hardly dirty though. Her body spooned against his, her right hand now loosely clasped around his left, this was hardly smut. Under different circumstances, maybe it could have been the beginning of something. But there was no way anyone was going to be getting sexual now. He might have been bristling beside her like it was something inappropriate, but it wasn't.

The fact that he thought it was, that he thought intimacy without sex was, did not make her feel good. It almost made her feel clingy and overbearing. But at the same time, she didn't doubt that he loved her. Clearly he did… more so than he was comfortable accepting at times, she supposed.

And Cuddy knew she could have been mad – about that, about all of it. She had the right. But it was a right she had no intention of exercising. Because she loved him and understood _him_ well enough to know that… above all else, this wasn't born out of a lack of appreciation for her. If anything it was just the opposite; he felt so unworthy of _any_ affection that, when it came his way, he had no idea what to do with it. So he would reject it, resent it, mock it, or, in rare instances, seize at it so greedily that he made a starving dog consuming a meal seem restrained. Though it shouldn't have been that way, though _he_ shouldn't have been that way, he was. Even after all this time, unsure and secretly insecure, he had yet to learn what to do in these kinds of situations. And she couldn't be mad at him for that.

He tended to punish himself enough already.

Which was a thought that never failed to make her frown, and now was no different. Without Cuddy even realizing it, her lips had turned downward. The full pout on her face obscured partially by her hair, no one saw it. And she didn't even realize it was there until, out of sympathy, she pressed a kiss to House's neck and felt it against his skin.

He must have felt it too, because his reaction was to turn his head slightly in her direction. A move so imperceptible that most would have missed it, it was something she eagerly clung to as a sign of hope.

Sure, it was possible that she was reading the signs wrong. A small change in his body could have been just that. But Cuddy didn't really believe that. She'd been with him long enough to know what every gesture meant, and given the situation, she doubted that this would be the time House chose to change the vocabulary.

He needed her to understand in this situation.

He needed her reassurance.

He needed _her_ – more than she would ever need him.

Not that he would ever tell her that.

She had the right to know that fact, he thought, but he couldn't find it in himself to say it. It would sound so weak and pathetic coming from a man like him – especially right after a thing like this.

Whatever this was.

Like many things involving Rachel, he had _no_ idea how to describe what was going on. The product of a nightmare or medical crisis – those mere designations couldn't properly articulate the bizarreness that was now all around him. Those words might have been able to explain why it was happening (to an extent), but he didn't care about the why. At this point, he didn't even really care why.

All he wanted was for it to not be happening.

But this too was another thing he could never say to Cuddy. She was too invested in seeing him adjust to and flourish in these situations to appreciate just how _intensely_ uncomfortable he was right now.

True, she must have sensed that he was floundering. She wouldn't have been so close to him, holding his hand and kissing him, if she didn't. At least she wouldn't have been under these circumstances. But knowing that he was unhappy was apparently not enough to get Rachel off of him – to make Cuddy pick _her_ damn kid up and deal with the problem on her own.

Cuddy was clearly trying to placate him, to calm him down, and given that he was _completely_ freaked out, part of him greedily welcomed her efforts. But more than anything, he wanted this to be over.

_Now_.

Unfortunately, nobody else seemed to share his urgency. Rachel was too busy whimpering on his stomach, her tears and sniffles being absorbed by his t-shirt. And Cuddy was preoccupied with her, with repeatedly telling her in a gentle voice to stop crying and tell everyone what was wrong.

Mind you it was working. The encouragement Rachel was receiving was having its intended effect. But why this couldn't take place elsewhere he didn't know.

The question driving him to distraction, he barely noticed that Rachel and Cuddy were talking.

"Can you tell me what's wrong?" Cuddy asked, using her free hand to push several strands of tangled hair out of her daughter's face.

Even before Rachel nodded her head and spoke, Cuddy could tell what was wrong. It was without a doubt a bad dream. Most parents would have started with that theory and would have had the good fortune of being right nearly all of the time. With Rachel though, there was just no telling at first glance. Unless there were other visible symptoms, crying on its own gave away nothing, making something that should have been simple fairly complicated.

But Cuddy wasn't complaining at the moment. A nightmare was easy to handle, after all. A nightmare was something Rachel could recover from fairly quickly.

This was completely unlike tears created from poor glucose levels, which almost always made the crying last long after her blood had been dosed with sugar or insulin.

No, a nightmare was safe. It was not the beginning of a hospital stay or even more meticulous medical monitoring. This might have taken longer for Cuddy to diagnose, but it _was_ something she could fix.

And because of that fact, she had to work hard to keep the relief off her face when Rachel finally confessed, "I had a bad dream." It might have been nice to know that physically Rachel was okay, but Rachel would _not_ have understood why her mother was happy in that moment. She would have been confused and hurt, so Cuddy was careful not to give anything away. Because when everyone was already on edge and exhausted, when her daughter was still terrified, the last thing Cuddy wanted to do was make things worse.

So she was as sympathetic as she could be when she said, "I'm sorry, baby." She shifted alongside House so that she could kiss Rachel on her sweaty forehead. "It must have been very scary."

Rachel didn't say yes or no. She didn't nod or shake her head like you were supposed to when someone said something. That was what Miss Claire, her last teacher, said anyway. "You let everyone know you understand," she taught them. Mommy liked nods and shakes and yeses, Mommy didn't like no unless it was the answer to "Did you break this lamp?" And then she wasn't happy anyway, cause it meant House was the one who did it, so then she was mad at him.

But Rachel wasn't saying no now either. She was being quiet. Like a mouse. Mice probably never had bad dreams though, so maybe she wasn't like a mouse. Maybe she wasn't like any animal. Maybe she was just a Rachel. She would have liked to be something else, but no, she was just a Rachel – a Rachel who didn't want to say she was afraid or anything else. Mommy would probably want her to talk, but Rachel didn't want to say anything. She didn't want to make House mad.

Mommy didn't seem to care about that though, cause she asked the question Rachel didn't want to answer. "Do you want to tell me about your dream?"

Rachel shook her head. Her nose accidentally rubbed against House's shirt and dripped on it. For a moment, she worried that he would yell at her for it. He didn't usually yell, but he had today, a little bit, and she didn't want him to do it again. He was really loud. Normally he wasn't like that. Normally he just liked to be grumpy and say things she didn't know the meaning of. But Rachel knew nobody liked boogers (except for Teddy Crane who ate his), and she didn't want him to be mad at her for that.

If he was angry though, he didn't have time to say anything. Mommy, not knowin' what Rachel had done, said, "You might feel better if you talked about it. Sometimes talking makes things seem not so scary."

Rachel wanted to shake her head, but she was afraid. So she lied and said, her voice hushed by his shirt, "Don't remember."

Mommy knew it was a lie. Mommy always knew. She denied having lasers that could tell her when people were lying (Mommy actually liked to laugh at that idea), but Rachel knew different. Mommy had superpowers.

And since Rachel didn't want to get in trouble for lying, she clumsily changed her story. "Not tellin'."

"Why not?" Cuddy didn't say it angrily; it wasn't a demand or an accusation. She simply wanted to know why Rachel didn't want to talk about her dream. But Rachel didn't offer a reason. "Why not, monkey?" Licking her lips, Cuddy hesitantly asked, "Are you embarrassed?"

Affronted Rachel replied with indignation, "No!" At that moment, House shifted his leg back on the bed, which made her scream even more loudly, "No!"

Her knuckles turned white as she clung to him. Literally, she clung to him, and Cuddy was stunned into silence at the sight.

Was this really happening?

She knew she needed to say something, but she had no idea what. This was just too bizarre for her to know how to respond.

In the end though, House was the one to break the silence. Peevishly, bitterly he snapped, "I'm not going anywhere. I was getting back in bed since there's absolutely no chance of me escaping the live action version of _Little Women_ happening on top of me."

Tensing Cuddy waited for the loud sobbing that had filled their bedroom only moments ago to return. She didn't dare admonish House; she would later, but right now, doing that would just put him over the edge. And since Rachel seemed attached to him for reasons nobody but she understood, Cuddy absolutely wasn't going to do the one thing that would send him running. Truly her only option was to anticipate Rachel's tears returning.

But they didn't.

If anything it seemed like House's words, as unfriendly and rough as they'd been, had made Rachel... calmer?

That didn't make any sense, Cuddy thought, but that was what it looked like was going on. It really did appear as though Rachel had relaxed as soon as House had spoken. How that could possibly be… Cuddy didn't know. She didn't doubt that House could be comforting. She'd had more than enough experiences with him to know that he could absolutely be soothing, protective, and reassuring. He'd done it tonight. Even when she'd fought so hard to resist, he had been there for her. And because of that, maybe it shouldn't have felt so weird for Rachel to take solace seemingly in him.

But it did feel that way to Cuddy. Because she was used to House's own personal brand of reassurance; Rachel wasn't. Most people weren't. Most people didn't know to or didn't want to look beyond his gruffness to see the gentleness within him. Then again, he didn't want them to, and Cuddy didn't think that he wanted Rachel to at this particular second. He just wanted her to get away from him.

For whatever reason though, Rachel was embracing him and his words. And Cuddy had no idea why that was, but she supposed that it would be foolish to question the matter aloud. If Rachel didn't want to have a meltdown, fine. Cuddy might have been confused, but if it got everyone back to sleep sooner, she wasn't going to ask questions.

What she _would_ do was try to get Rachel to talk about her bad dream. More than anything, that was the key to resolving this situation, and Cuddy knew it.

Gently pressing more kisses to her daughter's forehead, she attempted to console her some more. "It's all right, Rachel. Nobody's going anywhere. Okay? House and I are going to stay _right here_, so _you_ can tell us what your dream was about."

She could practically feel House rolling his eyes at her. No doubt he felt her attempt at not so subtly telling everyone what to do was awful. He would take offense at the transparency, and she couldn't blame him; she was trying to console, but even to her own ears, it almost sounded like an ultimatum. Thankfully though House didn't say anything – a fact that she considered a small victory.

Returning her attention to Rachel, Cuddy asked carefully, "Was your dream about Marina?" She hadn't wanted to ask that question. Having hoped that Rachel would volunteer information about her dream, Cuddy hadn't wanted to waste time guessing what was wrong. But at this point, there really was no other option, and she'd guessed the one thing that seemed to torment her daughter regularly these days: Marina's death.

Rachel shook her head. "No."

"No?" Cuddy didn't know if she believed her. "Are you sure?"

"Uh huh."

It seemed like she was telling the truth, but then… if that were true, the question remained: what _had_ upset Rachel so much? Cuddy supposed that it could have been just about anything – ghosts, goblins, going to school naked, etc. Not too long ago, Rachel had had a dream where she'd been a frog trying to escape an amphibian-eating toilet, so it really could have been about _anything_. But Cuddy doubted that this was a run-of-the-mill nightmare. If it was, there was absolutely no reason for Rachel to be seeking comfort from _House_.

The thought, bitter sounding even in her own mind, made Cuddy cringe inwardly. She shouldn't have been so suspicious about the moment taking place before her. But she was. She shouldn't have felt something she could only describe as _envy_ growing inside of her. But she did.

Honestly, it made no sense. House holding Rachel… it was what Cuddy had been _hoping_ for all this time. She'd wanted _this_. Maybe in her mind, she'd envisioned House being more affectionate, but basically, this was what she'd wanted. And _yet_, she felt some part of herself wondering why Rachel hadn't come to _her_.

As though Cuddy's confusion was beginning to funnel itself into an inkling of rejection, she couldn't help but wonder why Rachel had chosen House. He didn't even care. He wasn't even doing anything to console her. _Cuddy_ was the one doing that. _She_ was the one rubbing Rachel's back and offering her kisses and reassuring words. House was the one just lying there, praying that it would be over soon. And Rachel wanted _him_?

It made no sense.

Unless….

Had Cuddy been the source of the nightmare?

She guessed it was possible. Of course, that still didn't explain why Rachel wanted to be near House, but if Cuddy had done something cruel in the dream, maybe… maybe that was why Rachel didn't want to be around her. Cuddy didn't want to believe that that was the case, but she knew it was possible. Which was why she asked quietly, "Did you dream about me, baby?"

"No." But the way Rachel said it made Cuddy think that she'd touched on something. Because while she could tell that Rachel wasn't lying, there was a tightness in her voice that said that Cuddy was getting close.

"Okay," Cuddy said with a slight nod of the head. "Did you dream about somebody else?" Rachel didn't respond, which practically guaranteed that the answer was a yes. "Did you dream about –"

"Oh for the love of God," House finally snapped. He'd had enough.

Cuddy looked up at him, her gaze angry and cold. "_House_."

He shook his head. "I hung in there for as long as I could, but –"

"And you can wait a few more minutes," she said dismissively, the implicit warning impossible to miss.

"I _could_." He reached down and unceremoniously shifted Rachel towards the left side of his body. Every time Cuddy had asked a question, Rachel had squirmed; the movement hadn't been a lot (he doubted Cuddy had even noticed), but nevertheless, she was inching towards the right side of his body. And if she were to put all of her weight on his thigh or nudge it accidentally, he feared he wouldn't be able to control his reaction. So he moved her back to the spot she'd originally occupied on top of him.

_Of course_, House would have preferred getting Rachel off of him all together. But she was gripping him so hard, and it would have created such a scene that he settled for repositioning her and telling Cuddy nastily, "But this is like watching a toddler try to fit a triangle through the square peg."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm sorry this is boring you, but I'm trying to help my –"

"You _still_ haven't figured it out?" he asked patronizingly.

Cuddy sat up abruptly. Were they _really_ going to fight now? Was he seriously picking a fight with her when all she wanted to do was calm Rachel down? "I can't believe –"

"How slow you're being?" he offered. "Me neither."

Cuddy glanced over at Rachel. As though she were weighing her options, House knew she was debating whether or not it was worth fighting him on the matter. Cuddy was asking herself, "Do I start a fight with him now or focus on my kid?" It was a tough call to make, which was why he wasn't surprised that she went with the middle ground.

"If you think you know what Rachel's dream was about…" she challenged, folding her arms across her chest. "Then by all means… share it with the rest of us."

He hesitated. He'd figured what was wrong with the kid, but he was reluctant to do what Cuddy wanted. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but at that moment, it struck him that the truth would be altering in ways he couldn't even begin to predict. He hadn't really thought about it before; he'd been too smug with knowledge to consider the fallout. But now he had, and he wanted nothing more than to be wrong.

"Well?" Cuddy demanded. An arrogant smile toyed with the lines of her lips. Clearly she thought he had nothing. She thought he was bluffing.

She was wrong.

And he hated himself for being this way, but he wanted her to know just how wrong she was. Facts only had so much power when they stayed inside you; keeping the truth to himself would only make him miserable, because she would never shut up about how he'd bluffed and lost this little tiff. Which meant that, even if it would mean more for him than her, she needed to be fully aware of how _stupidly_ wrong she was.

"Me," he said finally, the unfortunate word forced out on an exhale. "Her nightmare was about me."

Cuddy scoffed. It lasted just a second, but her immediate reaction was to assume he was lying. Well, what else was new? In this instance, he didn't blame her though. The whole idea was crazy, and though he'd been the one to realize that Rachel had dreamed of him, he could see that it was completely insane. Truth be told, he probably would have been able to deny the whole thing, pretend like it hadn't happened, if it weren't for the look of shame on Rachel's face. So it wasn't surprising that Cuddy's scoff quickly gave way to a mouth agape and eyes wide open.

Her attention now completely on Rachel, she asked, "Is that true?"

Of course it was. He'd put two and two together the second Rachel had denied dreaming of Marina. Usually, it was the dead nanny that made quiet nights with Cuddy an impossibility. Visions of babysitters meeting speeding cars had the tendency of turning Rachel into an affection-starved, teary-eyed pain in the ass. But then that had always been Mommy's problem, and if Little Orphan Annie was snuggling up to him like he was Daddy Warbucks without the usual emotional trauma fueling it, then he'd realized it meant something else was going on.

In this instance, the only way the pieces fit together was if she'd been dreaming of him. _That_ was the something else. And honestly, at this point, even if he hadn't solved the puzzle, the way Rachel was blushing under her mother's gaze said it all.

"Oh Rachel," Cuddy said softly. Leaning forward she wrapped her arms around Rachel as best as she could. Given that her daughter was still clinging to House, it wasn't easy to hug her. Cuddy did her best though. "I'm so sorry you had that dream. But…" she said, preparing to smooth over any fractures Rachel's relationship with House was about to experience. "I know that whatever he did to you in your dream, he didn't mean it."

As soon as the words came out, she could see House's entire body language change. He was stiffening, the lines of his body shifting so he looked harsher. He was _offended_. Which made no sense, because all she'd been trying to do was prevent Rachel from punishing him for something that had never happened. And House _knew_ that that was possible, because he'd been around long enough to understand that Rachel was more than capable of holding a grudge for something that had occurred solely in her dreams. So he should have known that Cuddy was trying to be _nice_.

She'd been mad at him seconds ago, sure. But that anger had disappeared the instant she'd realized that he'd been right about Rachel. Then Cuddy had been forced to consider that his outburst had been a reaction to what he'd figured out. Clearly feeling guilty about, even fictionally, harming Rachel, he'd lashed out as a result, Cuddy had realized.

Instantly, she'd forgiven him.

Without a second thought, she'd forgiven him. And her words had only been an attempt at putting everything right.

But House wasn't looking grateful, relieved, appreciative – or anything else that would have suggested that he understood her actions.

Sighing Cuddy asked tiredly, "What now?"

He shook his head.

"Tell me."

"That you assume the worst about me?" He sneered. "You already know that."

Cuddy was completely taken aback. "What are you –"

"Do you think she'd be clinging _to_ me if I did something to –"

"I don't know, House," she interrupted, her voice harried and tight with emotion. "I have no idea what her dream…" Her voice trailed off as she realized Rachel was still in the room. Not wanting a huge fight (even though some part of her _did_), Cuddy gritted her teeth. Now was not the time to argue, and she knew that. So she simply said, "I was just trying –"

"And failed," House finished casually.

She grimaced. "I didn't –"

"He didn't do anything," Rachel said in a voice that was inexplicably clear. Normally in these situations – when she was upset or scared – she mumbled. But neither House nor Cuddy were confused by what Rachel had said. Her pronunciation had been perfect, her defense of House unquestionable.

And still Cuddy asked, "What did you say?"

Rachel must have felt she was in trouble, because this time she _did_ mumble. "Didn't do nothing."

"Okay," Cuddy replied immediately despite her confusion. She'd been hoping she'd heard wrong. Obviously she hadn't, but she'd needed to hear Rachel say it again. And now that she had, Cuddy hated herself for it. House's _smugness_ was nauseating.

With difficulty, she ignored it – _him_. Instead focusing all of her attention on Rachel, she said, "I'm just trying to understand why you're so upset. Mommy just wants to help you."

Her words must have touched something inside of Rachel, because instantly she reached for Cuddy. "Mama."

"Come here," Cuddy told her as she plucked Rachel off of House's lap.

No one resisted the move. House obviously wasn't going to protest, and Rachel easily settled in Cuddy's arms. With Rachel's face pressed into her chest, Cuddy expected to see House sprinting out of bed and out of the room. He hadn't said much, but he'd made it abundantly clear that he didn't want to be around.

Yet he didn't move at all.

Irritated Cuddy assumed that he wanted her to witness his sulking, wanted her to see how "upset" (quotation marks, because she doubted he actually cared) he was at her interpretation of Rachel's behavior. He wasn't staying, because he was interested in hearing what Rachel had to say. Cuddy didn't have the brain damage to even begin to think _that_.

No, he was staying here to prove a point.

A point Cuddy didn't give a damn about.

… Well, all right, she _did_. She _did_ care. And she would apologize for her gaffe – just not right now. _Rachel_ was the concern for the time being. She had to be. And as such, _she_ was the one Cuddy chose to reassure.

Rocking her, she said, "So now we know _who_ you dreamed about. Do you think you can tell Mommy what happened?"

"Don't wanna say."

"Why not?" House interjected, much to Cuddy's dismay. "You already copped to the embarrassing part… unless you dreamed about me being naked and then admitting that is the _least_ of your problems."

Rachel scrunched her tiny nose up in disgust. "Ew," she whined, elongating the word for several seconds. "I didn't dream about you _naked_."

"Good," he replied. "Cause only Jenna Jameson is allowed to do that. And Mommy too when I'm willing to make the exception."

"_House_."

Cuddy was _not_ pleased that he was mentioning a _porn star_ in front of her daughter. She also wasn't thrilled at being ranked _behind_ said porn star when it came to who had the right to imagine him being naked. But this wasn't personal (no matter what that voice inside of her was saying). This was about _Rachel_.

Not that she seemed to notice.

Squirming out of Cuddy's arms once more, she plopped herself back on top of House. "Rachel," Cuddy admonished. Again though, she was ignored.

"Are you trying to break my ribs?" House asked, shifting Rachel so her knees weren't digging into him.

Rachel didn't answer. Instead she said in a sing song voice, "I seen you naked already. Don't want to dream about it."

"I think we're all relieved to hear that," he replied.

At that moment, much to his chagrin and discomfort, Rachel chose to snuggle – _snuggle_ – up next to him. Tucking her head underneath his chin, she was as close as she'd ever been to him. So near, she was making her previous attempt at being close to him seem distant.

_Why_ she was doing this…

He had no idea.

She'd dreamed about him, okay. But that shouldn't have necessitated _this_. No nightmare should have required her to be this close to him. To her mother? Yes. Sure. Fine. If Rachel needed to hug someone, that was understandable, but then that was why she had a _mother_.

He was about to point this out, especially to Cuddy who was, of course, doing nothing. But Rachel spoke first. Her voice barely above a whisper, her breath hot on his skin, she confessed, "I had a dream about the shark."

He didn't understand at first. She'd used the words, the shark, like he was supposed to know what she was talking about. Sure, she wasn't anywhere near an expert on the English language. But if she'd meant to say she'd dreamed of a random fish, she would have said, "I dreamed of _a _shark." She'd said _the_, meaning this was a specific shark – one that he was supposed to be aware of.

It went without saying that he wasn't, aware that was. He had no idea what she was talking about. That wasn't his area of study. Infectious disease? Yes. Ichthyology? No. But she was expecting him to know what the hell she was talking about. And he wracked his brain for references that he _and_ she would have, but the only thing that came to mind was…

_Damn it_.

In that instant, he knew what she was talking about. The words he'd said to Rachel suddenly began to echo in his mind, and like a train wreck he couldn't look away from, the events of this morning began to play before his eyes.

He had shown her his leg, his _scar_, and seeing its ugliness up close and personal, Rachel had assumed that something so horrible could only come from something equally terrible. Being five and not particularly imaginative, she'd come up with a shark bite, and not particularly concerned with Rachel's ability to understand, he'd let her think that.

For only a moment though.

The second it became clear that she actually believed him, he'd corrected her. He'd told her no.

"_It looks like a shark bit you."_

_He rolled his eyes. "You know, that's exactly what happened."_

_Though it seemed impossible, her eyes became even wider. "_Really_?"_

_"No."_

Recalling the moment easily, he _knew_ he had put a stop to it; he had done the right thing.

All right… he could concede that _perhaps_ the _right_ thing would have been to _never_ let Rachel think he'd been attacked. But she'd been thinking it anyway, and surely letting her believe it for a couple more seconds wasn't _that_ wrong.

And yet he knew Cuddy would never see it that way. She would blame him. She would be furious, so it was a good thing she didn't want to get pregnant; by the time she was through neutering him, that wouldn't even be an option.

As though she could tell he was thinking about her, Cuddy asked him pointedly, "What is she talking about?"

He considered lying but only briefly. She would find out soon enough, so a lie would only make him look worse. It would just look like he'd _tried_ to keep it from her or like he'd purposely created this situation.

On the latter count, he was completely innocent. Even if he'd _wanted_ to mess with Rachel's head, he couldn't have had the power to dictate what her subconscious would do. He couldn't have predicted that she would dream the exact scenario he'd allowed her to believe. Whose subconscious even worked that way?

Rachel's did apparently.

And on the off chance that he was supposed to magically know this, he didn't want to answer Cuddy's question. So he did the mature thing and ignored her completely.

His attention on Rachel, he reminded her, "I told you that's not what happened."

Rachel pouted (as did Cuddy, he noted). "You said –"

"I _said_ our conversation would be better if a great white gnawed my face off. I _didn't_ say that it _did_ happen."

She was unconvinced. "I saw your scar."

It was, in her mind, a counterpoint to his words. Using her logic, he could see as much; she had no idea what else could create such wounds. For her, it could only be a shark or a bear or some other huge animal or monster. She had no idea what an infarction was; that wasn't part of her vocabulary. And in her mind, if she'd seen the scar, then that was all the proof she needed to feel like she was right.

In _his_ mind, her saying those words was all the proof _he_ needed to know that Cuddy was going to kill him. They'd never had a discussion about his thigh – at least not in terms of how to handle it with Rachel. There'd never been a moment where Cuddy said keep it a secret or where he told her that he didn't want the kid to know.

Should they have?

For House, it was private. He wasn't… _ashamed_ of it really. He wasn't _hiding_ the truth from anyone, especially not from Rachel. But he'd also never considered it any of her business. And he wasn't sure where Cuddy landed on the matter.

To be honest, he was more ambivalent than anything else. He definitely didn't think it was something Rachel needed to know, didn't think that Cuddy had the right to divulge what was personal, but at the same time, he didn't want his girlfriend to view this part of him as something horrific. He wasn't ashamed, but if the woman he loved was or thought he was (or should be)…

He would.

And no matter how he felt, no matter how she felt, he didn't want to deal with that now. All he really wanted to do was sleep – not find himself knee deep in a conversation he wasn't prepared to have.

But there was no avoiding it, it seemed. Before he could even put a stop to the conversation, Cuddy interjected in confusion, "Rachel… I think maybe you're confusing what happened in your dream with what's real. House has never – I promise you – done anything with –"

"No, no, no!" Rachel practically screamed in frustration. "I'm not making it up!"

Cuddy gave her a dark look. "Don't yell at me, Rachel." Her voice was calm, nothing like the shrill tone House was used to when she was pissed at him. And unlike all of the times Cuddy had yelled at him, Rachel seemed to listen.

Taking a deep breath, she said in a whiny voice, "I'm not lying."

"I'm not saying you are," Cuddy replied in a firm but gentle manner.

"It really happened."

Cuddy shook her head. "I know you think it –"

"I saw his leg," Rachel insisted, her tiny fists pounding into House by accident. "I'm not making it up. He showed me."

Suddenly Cuddy understood. She hadn't before. Having been at work, she hadn't gotten a very clear picture of what had happened this morning. House and Rachel had told her snippets of events, some more troubling than others. But this was the first time Cuddy got an idea of the _timeline_ for the hours she'd missed.

Quickly sequencing events, she thought that House must have fallen asleep after she'd left. And at some point, Rachel had woken up, wondered where her mother was, and sought House out. House had said that Rachel had accidentally touched his leg then, and Cuddy knew that as soon as that had happened, House had yelled. Rachel had been terrified, so she'd run outside – which had prompted the asthma attack. Since she was still alive, House obviously had given her her inhaler and made sure she was okay before sending her to change.

Cuddy knew, thanks to Rachel, that there'd been some sort of trouble doing that. And House, already on edge, had grabbed Rachel to help her change. Naturally that would have made things worse, made Rachel more afraid and House edgier and guiltier than he'd probably already felt. At that moment, he'd have realized that his actions would get back to Cuddy at some point; he'd have known that there was no escaping it, so he would have tried to apologize to Rachel. Rachel would have accepted, but she would have, no doubt, insisted that she'd done nothing wrong. And technically that would have been true; Cuddy had no doubts about her daughter intentionally hurting House. But for _him_, the pain would have been real nonetheless. The desire to explain his behavior would have been as well.

So he would have told Rachel about his thigh. She probably hadn't believed him, probably hadn't even thought it possible to hurt someone in the way she had. And that disbelief would have compelled him, as it apparently had, to show her the bane of his existence.

The rest of the morning was even clearer in Cuddy's head, thanks to the conversation she was witnessing. Rachel had obviously believed that a shark had bitten him. House being House had let her believe _that_. Since he was denying it now, Cuddy could only assume that that meant that he'd told Rachel the truth at some point along the way. Sure, Rachel had had a nightmare anyway, but Cuddy didn't doubt that House hadn't meant to cause this.

He simply wasn't that cruel.

If anything, he looked downright upset at the idea that he'd been the responsible party. And seeing that, Cuddy couldn't help but intervene. "Honey," she said maternally, her fingers carding through Rachel's messy hair. "House has _never_ been bitten by –"

"But I _saw_ it."

"I know," Cuddy replied quickly. "But he was _sick_. There was no shark."

Rachel looked back and forth between House and her mother. "But he said –"

"He was teasing you, baby. I promise you."

At that, Rachel looked angrily at House. "You –"

"I told you the truth," he said hastily.

She shook her head. "You didn't say you're sick."

"I'm not."

"But…." Her mouth closed shut. She wasn't sure what to say now. Mommy was saying there was no shark. That meant there was no shark. Mommy wouldn't lie. But then something had happened to House. Mommy had said that too. And House had said that his leg hurt sometimes, so that meant he was still hurt, and… so that must have meant he was sick. But he was saying he wasn't, and that didn't make any sense.

"Rachel," Cuddy said, seeing how confused her daughter was. "You need to understand: House was very, _very_ ill. Doctors gave him medicine, and…."

She sighed. It was difficult enough trying to find the right words to make Rachel comprehend House's health. Granted, for a five year old, Rachel had a far better understanding of medicine than most of her peers. She'd spent enough time around doctors, in hospitals, and receiving treatment for her conditions that she knew more than she should have. She understood that there were diseases that required constant care. She had several of those illnesses.

She'd never experienced what House had though. Cuddy hoped she never would. That went without saying. But that lack of experience made it hard for Rachel to envision a situation where you could be healed but still in pain. In her world, you were either cured or you weren't or you were never going to be. House didn't fit into that tertiary. Rachel didn't understand that yet.

But honestly, trying to figure out the best explanation was _easy_ compared to saying it in front of House. As hard as it would be to explain all of this to Rachel, Cuddy knew it would be harder to talk about House's health history in front of him. Not because he was ashamed or because she was, this would be harder simply because this was a history that they had both lived through.

This was something they'd both experienced.

There was an emotional history here that Cuddy didn't want to insult (or particularly relive). Even if it were possible to summarize what had happened in a few short sentences, part of her felt that it was _wrong_ to do so. She shouldn't have been able to condense something that seemed to consume such a big, important part of their history and lives. She supposed for Rachel's sake that she had to. But the last thing she wanted was for House to think that she didn't take that aspect of him seriously.

He'd never accused her of glibness. He'd never done that. He'd come close – he'd accused her of plenty of other things – but he'd never actually gone there.

Thankfully.

Had he done so, she would have overlooked the insult implicit in the comment. Instead, she would have felt compelled to articulate just how awful _his_ pain made _her_ feel. Comments about her narcissism would have never stopped afterwards, but she would have said it anyway. Defensive though she could have been, she would have said it out of a desperate need for him to know that she loved him. She loved him so much that every day, every moment she saw him in pain, she felt horrible.

_Guilty_.

For her part in his current condition.

For denying him Vicodin on occasions when he'd needed it.

For letting him have the drugs until it nearly destroyed him.

For giving them to him at all.

For not being able to find _some_ way to help his pain without harming him.

All that within her, no, she wasn't glib. There had been – and would be – moments where she struggled to understand, wavered with indecision when it came to making good medical choices for him. But she was never careless.

And it would have _killed_ her to make him think, even for a second, that she was anything other than _obsessed_ with doing the right thing for him.

But she guessed that was the risk she had to take. Rachel would never get it otherwise.

Clearing her throat, Cuddy continued, "And it took a long time to make him better. He was _very_ sick. And because of that, even though we fixed what was wrong with him, his leg isn't going to get better. He's not sick now. He's just in pain."

Cuddy's eyes purposely searched Rachel's face; she didn't dare look at House. Rachel didn't really look like she understood though. Nevertheless Cuddy asked, "Do you understand?"

When Rachel spoke after a minute or so, her voice was hesitant, worried. "Is that going to happen to me?"

Cuddy shook her head in confusion. Surely she hadn't heard _that_ right. "What? I… why would you think that?"

"You…" Rachel swallowed hard and shifted nervously. Her soaked underwear and pajama pants were clinging to her legs in what Cuddy could only assume was very uncomfortable. But that was _not_ the reason Rachel was squirming about.

"I what?" Cuddy asked, wanting to end this conversation sooner rather than later.

"You say… 'It took a long time to make him better.'"

"I did. Yes."

"Well… I sick. You say to me I never get better. I always have needles." She sounded undeniably bitter about that fact, not that Cuddy could blame her. "So… does that mean it's gonna happen to me too?"

Nobody was answering. Sometimes that happened when she wasn't saying things right. But Rachel knew she was saying everything like she was supposed to. She'd made sure of it, cause she wanted Mommy to know what she was saying.

But nobody was saying anything.

Maybe that meant she'd asked a stupid question. But Rachel didn't think it was. House was sick for a long time. Mommy said to Rachel a long time ago that she would always need to get shots. She was gonna be sick for for_ever_. That was a long time too! So Rachel didn't think she was being stupid.

Although… maybe she _was_ being mean. She wasn't trying to be. Honest. But she didn't want to end up like House. She hadn't even touched him hard this morning, but she'd hurt him. She didn't want to be like that.

And his leg was ugly too. It was scary. The skin didn't look right; it reminded her of a raisin – all rippled and wrinkly, and Rachel wasn't so sure a shark hadn't been involved. What happened didn't really matter much though, cause she didn't want her leg to look like that.

No, she thought, changing her mind. That wasn't _maybe_ mean. That was definitely mean. But when she was that way, Mommy always told her to be nice, and nobody was saying nothing.

So Rachel thought that must have meant she was _right._ Cause otherwise someone would have said no or _something_. And that made her afraid. "Mama?"

Cuddy didn't know what to say. Well, okay, she knew she needed to reassure Rachel. But Rachel's question had caught her off guard completely. And it was hard to find words when surprise rendered her speechless.

Of course, it wasn't lost on her that her silence was making Rachel panic. Cuddy could easily see the effect her inaction was having. But, in addition to her shock, she found herself debating what the right answer was.

Would Rachel absolutely end up like House? Of course not. Could she? _Yes_. And in fact her health made it _more_ likely that she _would_ suffer the same problem as House – far more likely. Her weight, her susceptibility to infection and disease, the likelihood that she would, at some point, have negative, even _destructive_, drug interactions – it all spelled out a person at risk. Having an infarction was just one of the many potential complications. Even if she never had the exact same medical problem as House, the result of another illness could create a situation just as dangerous.

And Cuddy didn't want to explain _that_ truth, but she didn't want to lie either. Rachel was sick; she would always need some form of care. Lying to her about that or about any facet of her illness was wrong.

In the short term, Cuddy would agree that lying had its advantages; giving Rachel a date when or a promise that all of this would end would certainly make her more compliant now. Cuddy had seen plenty of parents who did that. But in the long term, not adequately preparing Rachel for her future would only backfire. At some point, Rachel would have to confront the ugly realities of her illnesses, and Cuddy didn't want Rachel to enter that moment unaware. For all of the parents she'd seen lie, she'd seen just as many instances where their lies had turned destructive.

She didn't want that for her daughter.

However, Cuddy wasn't sure she could be honest now.

Should she even try to be?

She never got a chance to answer that question. Before she could, House had made the choice for her.

"No," he said sternly. "That's not going to happen to you."

Rachel looked at him with reluctant relief. "Are you sure?"

"_Yes_." He was talking as though he had no doubt in his mind. He was lying.

Cuddy wasn't sure how to feel about that fact, so she said nothing. He didn't stay quiet though. Instead he explained, "I got really sick, because no one knew what was wrong with me. We know what's wrong with you."

Rachel considered his words before nodding her head. "Okay."

"You believe me?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

She nodded her head again. "Uh huh."

"Good." At that moment he looked to Cuddy as if to say, "We're done now. Put the kid to sleep."

But Rachel had other ideas. Rather than going away quietly, she confessed needlessly, "I dreamed you were attacked by a shark."

House replied dryly, "Yeah, I got that part."

"But you weren't bited by one." She said it as though she were making sure.

"Nope."

"And you can't be? Right?"

"Not unless I jump into the ocean wearing a suit made of fish heads, which, I gotta say, does have its appeal right now," he muttered in response.

His lack of enthusiasm went ignored.

Instead Rachel asked, "They can't get in?"

"No." Surely, he thought, a meteor could crash into his skull right now and spare him this conversation. Maybe a satellite falling out of the earth's orbit could do the job. But closing his eyes, as he waited for impact, he quickly realized he wasn't that lucky. And since Cuddy seemed to be incapable of helping, he knew that he would have to take care of this on his own.

"Know why?" he asked eventually.

"Uh…" Rachel thought about this long and hard, a fact that made House bang the back of his against the headboard a couple times. "Cause sharks don't have feet?"

Good enough, House decided. "That's exactly why."

But Rachel wasn't satisfied. "But couldn't they just walk on their fins like seals?"

This was precisely why he hated kids. "No."

By outright denying it though, he'd only encouraged her to keep talking. "You don't know that."

"I do too."

She was snotty when she replied, "Prove it."

He didn't need to accept the challenge. He was aware of that; he wasn't required to prove anything to a little kid. But he wasn't going to let her walk away thinking she'd bested him. "Fine. Sharks' bones are made of cartilage. Even if one could manipulate its fins, its skeleton wouldn't support all its weight on land."

"But –"

"I mean it. On land, Jaws is gonna be about as active as your Aunt Julia, meaning, unless your definition of 'active' is _barely_ having the coordination and mental capacity to drool and wipe your own –"

"_House_."

He snorted at Cuddy's attempt to defend her sister. Like she didn't agree with him, he thought knowingly. Clearly she did; she had two eyes, so she must have. Anyone would have.

But he knew that this wasn't about Julia or her penchant for wielding her maternity leave and the poisoned fruit of her loins like weapons. He certainly would have preferred a conversation about the lawyer/mommy/fascist hybrid and her little pack of mouth breathers for children to the one he was having. However, he knew _that_ wasn't going to happen. So he reluctantly got back on topic. "Besides, sharks need water to breathe. The thing could moonwalk out of the ocean, and it wouldn't matter."

Rachel nodded her head, satisfied. He wasn't sure why that was the tipping point, but apparently it was, and that was all that mattered to him. "Oh. Okay," she said after a moment.

Later on, in hindsight, he would note her relief. At that moment though, he missed it completely. He was too tired to notice it and maybe a little too annoyed as well. Whatever the cause, in that exact second, he took her response as dissatisfaction.

Sneering in reaction, he told her sarcastically, "Sorry to disappoint you. I know you came running in here _hoping_ to find Mommy lying next to a really full shark but… didn't happen. Not gonna happen. So you'll just have to hope I accidentally drown in the bathtub, kid."

Did he really think she wanted him dead? Not really. She certainly didn't like him; she didn't care about him. He knew that much. But he also knew that she probably didn't have homicidal feelings in her toward him. Maybe she did; she could have, he supposed, but he was teasing her, _not _seriously telling her, "Better luck next time." He was just toying with her.

Rachel missed that point though. Her back suddenly becoming ramrod straight, she looked as though he'd slapped her. Her lips frowning, she told him in a hurt voice, "I don't want you to drown."

"Uh huh." He pretended to sound doubtful, not really paying attention to the effect he was having on her. Some part of him recognized that he should have been taking this seriously. But he just assumed that she was messing with him as he was her.

And then she said something he'd never expected her to say. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

His throat suddenly felt dry. His heart raced with realization, with _fear_. His mind tried to process what she was saying, what it _meant_, but this time he was the one who felt as though he'd been hit.

He might as well have been. He was stunned, the air knocked out of him. And though he needed to breathe, needed to respond, needed say something – _anything_ – to blow past this instant, he couldn't. His mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide open, he couldn't do anything but look at her as though he'd never seen her before.

She didn't want anything to happen to him?

She was admitting implicitly that she _cared_ about him?

It made no sense.

_None_.

Rachel cared – why should she? She shouldn't have; he'd never asked her to, and he'd never given her any reason to. No, she really shouldn't have been concerned for his wellbeing, and he was tempted to tell her that. Well, not so much tempted, he corrected, as much as he felt _obligated_ to tell her that…

There were better people to care about.

But his mouth refused to speak those words.

Pushing her away seemed like the only good thing he could do, but House couldn't find it in himself to say or do that.

However, Rachel wasn't prepared to let him off that easily. "Why would you say that?" she demanded to know. Like he had an answer for _that_. "_Why_ would –"

"Rachel."

Cuddy's voice was a welcome interruption. She hadn't been loud; to the contrary, she had spoken so quietly that he was surprised Rachel had heard her at all. But the kid must have, because as soon as her name had been uttered, her head jerked to look at Cuddy.

"It's very late," she explained in a soothing tone. "House knows you care about him very much." But the way Cuddy spoke made House think that she was just as surprised as he had been. Unlike him though, she was pleased and could barely contain it. "He's just… tired, baby. We all are. Aren't you feeling sleepy?" Rachel hesitantly nodded her head. "He's not thinking clearly right now."

House bristled at what she was saying, but Cuddy didn't care. He might not have liked her explanation, but by now, he would have realized that allowing her to intervene was the best way to resolve the situation at hand. And she wasn't going to apologize for something he only superficially despised.

"So," she said to Rachel, ignoring House's reaction. "Why don't you and I get you cleaned up and –"

"But," Rachel interrupted, clearly not liking the idea. "I –"

"Rachel," Cuddy told her gently. "It's late. It's bedtime. I _promise_ you: House knows, and nothing's going to happen to him." She did her best to sound matter-of-fact without being condescending.

And she must have succeeded, because Rachel nodded her head. "Okay."

"All right," Cuddy said, getting out of bed. Waving at Rachel to join her, she added, "Let's go." She didn't bother to pay attention to House as Rachel got out of the bed. Cuddy didn't need to look to know that he was relieved.

And, truth be told, she wanted to give him his space. After all, if _she_ was surprised that Rachel worried about House, then Cuddy couldn't imagine how _he_ must have felt. Shock couldn't even begin to describe the emotion going through him, she thought. He was convinced – _always_ so convinced – that he was disliked and unlikable that she was sure he was reeling right now.

Confused, terrified, and maybe (though he would never say this) a little happy, he needed time to sort this out. And though part of Cuddy wanted to help him through it, she understood that he needed to do this alone. She couldn't process this for him; he had to do that himself.

All she could do was give him the quiet space and time to do that.

That was much harder than she anticipated. Oh, taking care of Rachel was simple. They'd done this enough times that cleaning her up was down to a science. But it was difficult to pretend like House wasn't just a couple of rooms away, struggling to understand what had happened.

Rachel wasn't making it any easier. As Cuddy helped her into the bathtub, Rachel muttered, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Everybody has accidents," she said, kissing her daughter on the cheek. Cleaning her up, Cuddy added, "We'll just wash you, and then I'll change your sheets, and you can go back to sleep."

"No," Rachel muttered under breath quickly. "Mean… sorry I say that to House."

Cuddy stifled her desire to sigh. If she'd been hoping not to think about House, Rachel wasn't making that easy for her, no. But Cuddy knew that that wasn't Rachel's fault; this had happened to her as well, and the last thing Cuddy wanted her daughter to take away from this was that she should be apologetic for telling House how she felt.

"No, don't feel that way," Cuddy said. "I'm glad you told House that you care about him. You _should_ tell him how you feel. He needs to hear that sometimes."

"He wasn't happy about it."

Cuddy shook her head. "He's just surprised, Rachel. He's not used to hearing you talk like that. Not about him anyway."

"I guess." Rachel wiggled her toes in the hot water as Cuddy washed her.

"You know that sometimes you're not very nice to him. When you say that you hate him, he believes you," she said knowingly. House would never admit that. Had she ever said that near him, he would have done everything he could to prove her wrong. But Cuddy knew the truth. He fully believed Rachel didn't like him or care about him. "So… he was surprised tonight. But it'll be okay. Everything will be just fine."

Cuddy wasn't sure who she was trying to convince. Truth be told, it shouldn't have been herself. Rachel admitting that she cared about House was the kind of thing Cuddy had assumed she could only dream about. She'd never expected that to actually happen. And now that it had, part of her was elated by the news, by the fact that there was some sort of bond between House and her daughter.

But at the moment, honestly, Cuddy mainly felt dread. She knew how House could be when his worldview was suddenly altered. She knew how he dealt with sudden outpourings of emotion, and she worried how he would deal with this. It wouldn't be good. She knew that much.

As though this weekend hadn't been difficult enough.

Of course, that made her sound resentful. And really… she wasn't. She loved House and willingly accepted and forgave his flaws. She just wished selflessly that he could understand how much he really was loved.

But he would probably never get that point. For reasons surpassing her understanding, unconditional love was something he couldn't comprehend.

Even when he was surrounded by it.

And now that he had heard Rachel say that she cared, Cuddy wasn't so sure that he would ever have a good reaction to it. But she didn't even consider telling Rachel _that_. Cuddy hated the idea of lying to her, but in this instance, the truth – or what could be the truth – was something Rachel didn't need to know.

And in the end, Cuddy's reassurances must have worked (on Rachel anyway). By the time she'd finished bathing and dressing Rachel and changing the bed sheets, Rachel was fast asleep. Her only noise a sigh of contentment as Cuddy tucked her in, she was sleeping as though nothing was even remotely wrong.

Only Cuddy herself seemed to be painfully aware of just how precarious things really were. And that reality brutally asserted itself the second she entered her bedroom once more.

Her eyes searching through the darkness, she instantly realized:

House was gone.

His dirty pajamas crumpled up on the floor in a ball, his dresser drawers open, he'd changed and left.

To be honest, Cuddy wasn't sure why she'd expected him to stick around after what had just happened. Looking at the situation now, she thought she should have seen this move coming. She should have known he would run away, their bed not large enough to give him the space he needed.

Nonetheless, she was surprised, _shocked_ at how quickly he could be scared off. She would have liked to have had the opportunity to comfort him, to tell him that Rachel caring about him was a _good_ thing. And Cuddy could see why he was afraid of having that moment, but she was still caught off guard at how fast the need to escape had hit him.

Hopefully, the need to return would seize hold of him just as quickly. That was all she could tell herself. As much as she wanted to go after him, she knew that it would no good. He would come back – and she had no doubt that he _would_ come back – when he was ready.

Until then…

Sighing, Cuddy sat down at the foot of the bed. Her hand lightly running along his side of the mattress, she thought, with dismay, that the covers had already turned cold. Whatever warmth his body had provided was long gone… as she supposed was he.

Closing her eyes, she sighed again. She knew she should try to get some sleep, but she doubted she would be able to. Cliché and pathetic though it was, after years of sleeping next to House, it was difficult for her to do so without him. But right now, she didn't exactly have a choice, did she?

She might have wanted him here; she might have needed him here. But that didn't matter. It didn't change anything.

He was gone.

And there was no telling when he would be back.

_To be continued_


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Notes: Thank you to Huddyphoric, TrudyGill23, Jane Q. Doe, House ever, DoctorLisaCuddy, newsession, IHeartHouseCuddy, MissBates, avid, Sydney, xxClouds, anon004, red blood, Temo, jwhite2199, Tessaa, lin12344, joraco14, EllieShelly, scullyschik, SCLove, HouseBroken, and Josam for taking the time to leave me some feedback. It means a lot to know what everyone's thinking about my work. Thanks again!

_Disclaimer: It's not mine. _

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Eleven: Punishment**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

Willpower was the only thing keeping her conscious. Cuddy had wanted to stay awake in case House came back, but every second passing just seemed to be a reminder that he was gone and she was tired.

Beyond tired, she corrected immediately. Exhaustion tugged at her violently, and given that she wasn't prone to feeling sleepy (med school had rid her of that), she didn't think that "tired" was the right word. But her mind was too addled to come up with anything better.

That probably should have been enough to make Cuddy throw in the towel right then and there. At this point, even if House did come back, did want to talk, was she really capable of making any sense? Maybe, maybe not – it could go either way. And she worried that if he didn't return soon enough, she would be of no use to him.

Granted, she already suspected that she would be of no help. To say that House took change badly was an understatement, and she didn't know if she possessed the right amount of words or gentle touches to keep that part of him at bay.

She doubted she did.

Every now and then, there were moments where he led her to believe otherwise. However, Cuddy had no hope that she would be able to comfort him tonight. Rachel's revelation had been too shocking for that to happen; even if Cuddy had known all the right things to say and do, there was no way she was going to make House any more comfortable with the knowledge that Rachel cared about him.

That just wasn't going to happen.

There was simply too much to overcome. The nightmare Rachel had had (based on a scenario he had planted in her head), the tears she'd shed for him, the confession she'd made about how she really felt about him – none of that could be erased with or eased by a couple words from Cuddy. She knew that much. And since she'd assumed automatically that Rachel had dreamed that House had done something wrong, Cuddy figured he wouldn't trust her word anyway. No matter what she said, he would doubt her honesty.

Unfortunately.

Melancholy swelling in the back of her throat, she swallowed hard at that fact. He really wouldn't listen to her; he would ignore her or accuse her of only being kind out of necessity. He would _not_ believe her, would not rely on her, would not let himself take solace in her. One of the few times in their relationship where he needed her, and he wouldn't let her be there for him.

She hated that things would be that way. That one innocent mistake on her part would cost her this opportunity made her feel downright resentful. Towards what exactly she didn't exactly know. But she _did_ know that she wasn't wrong: House wouldn't take comfort in her words or presence.

And knowing that, she could see how some would think that staying awake was pointless. If she couldn't help, then why _not_ catch up on the sleep she'd been losing? Why _not_ wait for a time when she could talk to him and he would listen?

To be honest, Cuddy couldn't deny the logic in that. She wished she could, wished she could more of a selfless person, but the truth was part of her was asking those very questions.

Why _not_ put the inevitable conversation off until she was rested and House was ready to hear her out?

The answer immediately came to her: because staying awake looked better.

She knew she wouldn't be able to convince him of anything, but how awful would it be for her to not even _try_? How much worse would it be for _him_ to come back to bed, resigned to listening to her spiel, only to find her fast asleep? How betrayed would he feel _then_?

Cuddy didn't want to find out.

She was determined not to. Because as much as she _hated_ this set of circumstances and the way they were guiding her actions, she was resolved to making it work, to doing her best. And if all she could do was show him that she cared enough to even attempt a conversation, that was what she would do.

But in order to do that, she had to stay awake.

As if on cue, she yawned. Loud and drawn out, the sound was a reminder that there was a time factor involved; she wanted to be up and ready to talk to him when he returned, but there was a chance that wouldn't happen.

Then again, she supposed sitting in bed wasn't helping her any. And knowing that, she abruptly stood up. She figured this was a good decision all around, as she still needed to change; she hadn't been dripping with urine like Rachel had, but nonetheless, Cuddy didn't plan on sleeping in her current set of pajamas.

At that moment, her eyes instinctively glanced at the little clock on her side of the bed. Why she didn't know. She didn't actually care about the time; it was late, later than she wanted it to be. Seeing as how she was an early riser, she didn't enjoy the prospect of being up again in a couple of hours. And she certainly didn't need to know the time to know that she would be exhausted tomorrow, so she wasn't really sure why she'd looked at the clock.

At best, there was in her mind a vague desire to gauge how long all of this would take. Which made looking at the clock completely nonsensical, because she had no idea where House was. She hadn't heard the front door open or his car pulling out of the driveway, but she couldn't completely rid herself of the possibility that that had happened. And she guessed it didn't really matter _where_ he was; he wasn't _here_, which was her only real concern. But again… she wanted to know how long this part of her night would last.

At the thought, she groaned. She didn't mean to sound demanding or put out, but again, she was tired, and selfishly, she didn't want this bit of uncertainty in her life to drag on unnecessarily.

_God_. Elaborating only made her thinking sound that much worse. Selfish, immature – it was just awful. _She_ was being awful. Even though part of her was sure House would have felt the same if he were her, she couldn't defend her musings. It was simply inexcusable.

And wanting to avoid thinking like that any more, Cuddy decided that the best thing she could do was distract herself.

Immediately she settled on taking a shower to do just that. Reading a book or watching television mindlessly was admittedly more tempting. However, that – along with doing work or paying bills – wouldn't look good to House. He would come home and see her doing that and assume that she didn't care at all, that she hadn't noticed how upset he'd been. Since that was something Cuddy wanted to avoid, she went with the best option available to her: a shower. Because even _he_ couldn't deny that she needed one right now; after all, after holding Rachel for so long, Cuddy knew she could use a bath. And more importantly, House would know it too.

With that in mind, she headed towards the bathroom. Taking her clothes off as she went, she made much less of a mess than House had, she thought tiredly. _She_ at least had the good manners to place her soiled pajamas in the dirty clothes hamper.

Of course she didn't actually care where his clothes had ended up. At the moment, that was the least of her concern. But she had the thought anyway, the lack of sleep making her more peevish than she truly felt.

As she stepped into the shower, she reminded herself that she couldn't let her desire for sleep dictate her behavior like it just had – especially not when she talked to House. _That_ was too important to screw up by being anything other than the supportive lover he would need.

Luckily for her, the shower was aiding her in that endeavor. The hot water pelting her slowly eased the tension out of her muscles. The smell of soap, not urine, filling her senses, it made her feel clean, calm… in control. Not even the awkwardness with which she tried to keep her hair from getting wet (she would look awful in the morning if she slept with wet hair) could diminish her newly found sense of relaxation.

It simply felt too good.

Unfortunately, there was a downside. The hot steam swirling around her was beginning to lull her into sleep. It made her feel so warm, so cocooned that, although she could _not_ sleep right now, she wanted to.

Her eyelids starting to droop, she had just enough sense to shut the water off abruptly. The pipes in the wall made several clanging noises at the sudden motion, and bitterly she thought it would be just her luck to create a plumping emergency _now_. As if she didn't already have enough to worry about.

Thankfully though, no such thing occurred, and she was able to stumble out of the shower without incident. Still she wasn't above looking back at the stall suspiciously as she dried herself off. Something could still go wrong, she supposed. And given how unprepared she'd been for practically _everything_ today, she wanted to at least be able to claim that she had learned her lesson.

But clearly she hadn't.

The pipes didn't break, so she wrapped herself up in her towel. But obviously she hadn't learned anything. Because the second she headed back into the bedroom, she jumped at the sight of House. He was standing in the doorway to the hall. And though she figured she should have anticipated this, she hadn't.

Surprise flitting through her body, she didn't know how to react.

It was impossible to make out the expression on his face. Thanks to the light in the hallway and the lack of it in the bedroom, his entire body was shrouded in the shadows. And because of that, she wasn't sure what to say or do.

Gripping at the knotted towel, Cuddy shifted nervously on her feet. "House?"

At first he didn't say anything. He simply reached behind himself to close and lock the bedroom door. His actions slow and deliberate, it was as though he had all the time in the world and she was the only one desperate to talk about what had happened with Rachel.

Then again, maybe she was. Because he still wasn't saying anything; even as he stepped further into the room, he offered no explanation, no defense, _nothing_.

Which prompted Cuddy to ask, "Where have you been?"

Instantly she realized that the question was unnecessary. As he moved to stand in front of her, she could see that he was wearing pajamas. A different set than he'd gone to sleep in, yes, but that was beside the point. Seeing him dressed like this simply meant that he hadn't left the house. He would have put on jeans to do that, which meant he'd probably spent all this time in his office. And having figured that out, she wasn't angry when he didn't answer the question.

On the other hand, she was surprised when he ordered, "Lose the towel."

She should have anticipated this. That was her first thought. She should have known he would be this way. After all, House was a proud man, leery and contemptuous of relying on another human being.

Even when that person was his girlfriend.

To be honest, Cuddy couldn't hate him for it. She was the exact same way – and _had_ been tonight. She hadn't wanted to confide in him any of the things that were bothering her. She hadn't wanted to seem weak, incapable of taking care of her problems.

Maybe seem wasn't the right word there, she mentally corrected. She had no doubt that he would never see her as either of those things. Sometimes when they were working, when he needed her approval and she refused to give it to him, he would resort to such accusations, sure. He would say those things to manipulate her, to guilt her into okaying whatever dangerous scheme he had in mind.

But that was work. That was different. There, they needed to be combatants; they needed to fight and insult in order to protect each other from making a mistake. _There_ they had an unwritten rule: cruelty was occasionally warranted.

_Here_, in their _home_… it wasn't the same. They fought here too; she couldn't deny that. But they never crossed certain lines. Sometimes it was hard to remember where those lines were, what the absolutes were for each of them.

Knowing not to be cruel when the other person was asking for reassurance was _not_ a gray area.

At all.

She knew that as he surely did.

And yet asking for emotional support was something they both rarely did. He might have been willing to offer comfort and vice versa, but in the end, she felt – as she had earlier – too repulsed by the idea of needing reassurance to ask for it. Surely, House was no different, and she knew that.

Still, his demand for sex surprised her. She wasn't exactly sure why; in terms of sex, they made rabbits look celibate… especially as of late. But given the magnitude of what had happened, Cuddy had been sure sex was the last thing on his mind. She'd been convinced that he would want to talk about tonight's turn of events in _some_ way.

Then again maybe that was precisely why he didn't want to talk.

Rachel's revelation had been huge. Perhaps it shouldn't have been that way, but the fact that she'd admitted to caring about House _was_ big.

Sure, they lived together. They spent nearly every day together in some fashion, and maybe that should have meant that they were close. Maybe it should have meant that they cared about one another. But in all that time together, they rarely interacted with each other. And when they did do that, it typically wasn't because they _wanted_ to. Cuddy was aware of that much.

Frankly, given the way Rachel liked to yell at and insult House and the way he dismissed her in return, Cuddy would have had to have been completely clueless not to see how much they _didn't_ want to spend time together.

But that was why Rachel's confession had been so important. Part of her might have resented House or been reluctant to like him, but she _did_ care. She _did_ love him and want him to be safe, _here_. She had said as much.

And that changed everything.

Not just House and Cuddy's understanding of her daughter either.

_Everything_.

What Rachel had said… it had ramifications for every aspect of their lives. There was no area it didn't touch.

It would change the way (it had to) House and Cuddy viewed his relationship with Rachel. No longer could they pretend like he was a mere bystander in her life. That much was very clearly _not_ true, and they couldn't continue acting like it was. Things would have to change.

That included the relationship Cuddy and House had with each other.

She would have been lying if she'd said she'd ever thought this part of her life had no effect on Rachel. Cuddy had always understood that a man in her life was also, by default, in her child's. But up until now… she had assumed that a break up with House wouldn't harm Rachel, should it happen. Since Rachel seemed to hate House so much, Cuddy believed that a split would be… _welcome_ actually.

Now it was clear that that wouldn't be the case. That delusion buckling under the weight of reality, it was hard to remember why Cuddy had ever believed Rachel was immune. Why _wouldn't_ she care about someone she lived with? Why _wouldn't_ she have feelings for someone she'd known all of her life?

Whatever the reason was, it obviously didn't exist in Cuddy's mind any more. And because of that, she knew – as House must have or would – that they would need to be extra protective of their relationship.

Not that they hadn't been before. They had been. Even though it didn't feel that way, she knew they had been. But now they would have to be particularly vigilant not to screw things up. They would have to commit themselves to this in a way that….

She didn't know how to finish the sentence. Her first thought was to use the word, optional, but that wasn't right. It hadn't been optional before; she didn't want to say that. It was just that… now they couldn't pretend that the span of their relationship only affected themselves, work, and maybe Wilson.

They also had Rachel.

And if that didn't make House reconsider everything, Cuddy wasn't sure what would.

After all, it wasn't like he'd entered this relationship feeling responsible for the little girl. If anything, he'd made it perfectly clear that that was absolutely _not_ what he wanted – for _Rachel's_ sake.

Obviously he had his reasons for not wanting children. He didn't want the responsibility, didn't want to make sacrifices for a child. For someone as lonesome as House, Cuddy knew that it was hard enough for him to make room in his life for _her_. He probably hadn't even imagined himself capable of providing a good home for a child.

Given the way he viewed himself, she thought he couldn't have envisioned such things. He couldn't have possibly seen all the qualities he possessed that would make him a fine father. But then again, he had such problems with his own father that Cuddy suspected that House didn't even understand what traits made a good dad; he knew what not to do from his own experience but perhaps not how to _avoid_ doing or being those things. And even if he did know how a father _should_ behave, sadly… Cuddy doubted it mattered to _him_.

From years of experience, she knew that House viewed himself in very black and white, narrow ways. What he liked about himself, he took pride in. What he hated… he tried to avoid as much as possible. And in his binary thinking, his talents lie with his mind, with his job. He did not think he was good at personal relationships.

There were reasons for that too. She wouldn't deny that he was considerably more gifted in certain parts of his life… as everyone was. In his case, yes, his intelligence had the habit of surpassing and overshadowing every other quality he possessed. However, that didn't mean he _lacked_ the sympathy, patience, or capacity to love. As his girlfriend, Cuddy had been on the receiving end of all those things (and more) at some point or another. He never saw those characteristics within himself, but she had experienced them every day of their life together.

Rachel must have as well. She was a nice little girl, but like her mother and her mother's mother, Rachel didn't suffer fools easily. All the complaints Cuddy had received about her daughter hitting other children were proof of that fact. And though polite (at least when prompted), Rachel would have never pretended to like much less _care_ about House if she didn't.

That she _did_ have feelings for him meant that he had done something at some point to earn her affection. Whenever the hell that was, Cuddy thought dryly.

Admittedly, she was unaware of what had happened or what had changed. She didn't know what House had done to get to Rachel, but Cuddy supposed the specific act didn't matter. From experience, she knew he had a knack for getting under your skin and making you care about him, even when doing so went against your better judgment. He had that talent.

But she didn't think House would ever recognize that ability in himself. He hadn't ever done that before; he thought he hid his surprise well, but she knew just how shocked he was at being able to date her. And every time Wilson forgave him for some act of complete idiocy, House looked just as surprised, just as convinced that everyone in his life was better off without him.

He couldn't have been more wrong, but he believed it anyway. And since he'd stormed off tonight, she could only assume that what he would take away from this was that Rachel deserved better.

But of course she did.

Rachel deserved the world.

But whereas House believed that meant "better than _him_," Cuddy did not, would not. Maybe it was foolish at this point to think that things could change for the better, but she was sure that he _could_ give her daughter everything she needed from him; if House could demonstrate such affection for Cuddy, then surely, he could do the same for another human being.

Then again… if he didn't want to do that…

Swallowing hard, she pushed the thought out of her mind. At this point in time, it was impossible to tell which way House was leaning. She'd thought that, given the magnitude of what had happened, he would want to have some sort of discussion. But as he stood there, looking at her expectantly, she understood that even a simple conversation was too much for him right now.

The room was dark, though the sun would surely be up soon enough, and she still couldn't make out his expression fully. But gazing at him, she could tell that he wasn't ready to talk. He couldn't bear to do that now. Even as the need to do so weighed heavily on them both, he clearly could not find it in himself to have that conversation. She could see that much.

Just as she could see that he was desperate to be near her.

Of course though, this was House, and he would never ask for _that_. He would_ never_ say those words aloud.

_Ever._

Not if he could help it anyway. So he was going to use sex as a way to get that closeness without having to suffer the humiliation of asking for it.

That was her theory in any case.

Again, it was hard to discern the look on his face, but that didn't matter. She could feel the intensity pouring off of him, radiating from him like body heat. And he was so close to her and so close to ripping her towel off himself that it was impossible to miss what he wanted and why he wanted it. She would have been a complete fool not to know that this _wasn't_ about being turned on.

It really wasn't.

They would probably go ahead and have sex, but it wouldn't be the kind of passionate lovemaking you dreamed of when you were single. Instead, this would be… cold; that was the word she eventually settled on.

The sex would be fine but hardly what she wanted. It would be too calculated for her to enjoy. And ironically, despite it being what he wanted, she doubted he would like it very much either. Because as much as he might have needed her in this moment, his inability to open up to her would make the sex too detached for him to feel even the slightest bit better.

And knowing that, she didn't want to give him what he was asking for. She would if he insisted that this was what he needed. Even though Cuddy would never believe that sex was going to help now, she _was_ more than willing to have it. If it made House realize that he needed to talk to her, absolutely, Cuddy was all for sex.

But she didn't take off her towel. Instead, she told him gently, "Why don't you and I –"

"Shut up."

The words weren't as angry as he would have liked them to be. If anything, he just sounded… _upset_, a feeling so pathetic that he actually sneered at it. But that was how the words came out nonetheless. And he guessed he knew why.

Logic dictated that if he sounded upset, it was probably because he _was_.

If he were being honest, he couldn't deny that, in terms of what he could handle, he was right there; the water was up to his neck. Rachel's nightmare and all of its effects had put him there, had brought him to the edge. But he preferred "overwhelmed" as the proper way to describe himself. "Overwhelmed" was safe, didn't make him sound like a twelve year old girl ready to burst into tears cause she didn't get a valentine from the boy she liked.

Yet, against his will, that was the impression his voice was giving Cuddy. He was making it seem like he was about to lose it. Which was ironic, because at the moment, he was determined to maintain control – over him, over _her_. And he sure as hell wasn't going to let two words screw that up for him.

Taking a step closer to her, he spoke once more. This time his voice as harsh and authoritative as he could make it, he said, "I _said_ lose the towel."

He didn't give her a chance to respond. Rather than give her a choice, he reached forward and yanked at the knot between her breasts.

She half-gasped, half-scoffed as the towel easily opened to him. Had she not expected him to do that? _Really_?

He decided, as he threw the damp terry cloth onto the bed, that he didn't care what she was thinking. His own thoughts were more than enough to handle; he didn't need to know hers as well.

"Get on the bed," he ordered.

She didn't move. "No."

He gritted his teeth together for a moment. Not for a second did he believe she was actually refusing him; sex might not have been high on her priority list right now, but Cuddy had always been up for a quickie when he wanted one. And so, if she was saying no now, it was because, he _knew_, she had something else on her mind.

In this case, that could only mean she wanted to _talk_.

And he had no intention of doing that.

"Get on the bed," he repeated insistently.

She rolled her eyes. "So we can have sex."

"_Yeah_. So we can have sex. You think I need you naked to _crochet_?"

For no particular reason other than he could, he reached up at that moment and tweaked one of her nipples. The room's cool air had already hardened it, making it easy for him to catch between his index and middle fingers.

As he pulled at it lightly, Cuddy wondered if this was some sort of test. Was he doing this to see if she would say no? To gauge whether or not it was safe for him to push for sex?

She couldn't decide and ultimately let him keep his hand where it was. His fingers were warm, and even though sex wasn't what she wanted exactly, she couldn't deny that this felt okay… _good_ actually.

Still, she told him in a hushed tone, "If that's what you want… you know what I'll do."

"And yet you aren't doing it." He was snide, on the verge of being angry.

"Because before I do _that_, I want you to realize you have other options. _Better_ ones."

Immediately, as though he weren't even considering her words, he shook his head.

"House." She wanted him to think this through.

"_No_."

If he hadn't been angry before, she'd definitely upset him now. In fact he sounded almost _livid_. But Cuddy thought there was more to it than that. He was obviously mad but in a way that made her suspect that, more than anything, he was just afraid of her making him talk.

Admittedly, she could have been wrong about that. Anything was possible tonight. Yet she truly believed that his anger originated in fear. Something in her gut told her that she was _not_ wrong about that. So she responded with sympathy. Repeating his name, she said quietly, "House…."

"Don't."

"I wasn't –"

"I know what you _want_ me to do," he said knowingly, a sneer on his lips. "But it's not going to happen. _Ever_."

Cuddy frowned but kept her voice calm. "You don't think we need to talk about –"

"What _I_ need right now…."

His voice faltered and trailed off. The irritation that had been so apparent only moments before was gone. In its place was a sound best described as pleading.

_Begging_.

"Just… do this for me, Cuddy. I need –" He choked, cleared his throat. "_You_ need to do this for me."

Of course he wouldn't actually say, "I need you." This was House, so even in his most desperate moments, he wouldn't say those words. He'd made that abundantly clear.

And she knew why.

He always – _always_ – assumed he would be rejected. Denied. Even with her, with the woman he slept with, his first instinct was to protect himself.

Maybe that was her fault. After Stacy had left, he'd tried to confide in Cuddy. He'd come to her in pain and asked for morphine. He'd exposed himself, laid himself bare in more ways than one. And she'd….

She'd given him a placebo.

At the time, she'd thought she'd made the right choice. The saline injection had worked after all. He might have been in genuine pain – no, she corrected, he _had_ been, thanks to that self-loathing mind of his that liked to compound his physical and emotional problems. But the injection she'd given him had eased that pain, so she had listed that moment in the victory column.

It didn't feel like a win now though.

Now it just felt like she'd made it clear then that he couldn't come to her. He'd asked for help, and what she had done was demonstrate just how untrustworthy she was. She'd shown him that she wouldn't take his pain seriously, and because of that, moments like these just made her feel like she was being punished.

She knew he would never think of it that way, but that was how it felt to her.

And yet there was no point in complaining about it or even dwelling on that fact.

Of _course_, it bothered her, but what was she going to do about it at the moment?

Absolutely nothing.

They were already dealing with enough problems. She wasn't going to add this. And besides, if the issue was one of trust, she couldn't talk her way into his confidence. The only way she could do that was to _show_ him that she _was_ trustworthy. She needed to show him that there was nothing he could do that she would respond to with humiliation.

In other words, she needed to do what he wanted.

Sighing Cuddy stood on her tiptoes and kissed him gently. The second her lips met his, she felt him let go of her nipple. His hand moving to cup the side of her breast, it was the only indication he gave that suggested he was even remotely aware of what she was doing. He definitely wasn't kissing her back.

Perhaps he wanted her to capitulate out loud?

She didn't know. She _did_ know that if he continued to act this way, an orgasm wasn't in _her_ future.

Frowning, she muttered against his mouth, "Fine. You win."

Immediately he pulled away from her. His body language stiff and unfriendly, he said coldly, "Good. Now –"

"Get on the bed," she interrupted unimpressed. "Got it."

Maybe she should have sounded more enthusiastic, but honestly, she couldn't muster up that emotion. She was too tired for that, and again, it wasn't like she was going to get off tonight either way, so why bother?

As she begrudgingly moved to sit at the foot of the bed, she heard him say, "Yeah. You sound like you really want this."

The mattress squeaked a little as she sat down, and she shoved her wet towel, which he'd tossed onto the bed earlier, to _his_ side. Maybe it was childish to be doing that at a time like this, but she felt it was fitting revenge for making her sleep on the damp side of the bed earlier.

Okay, she could concede that it was definitely childish. But she didn't care.

On the other hand, she _would_ care about him noticing what she was doing; that would ruin her fun before it even had a chance to begin. So she distracted him from the act by saying, "I'm doing what you wanted. Get off my back."

"Get _on_ yours," he snarled. Instantly though he decided that standing around, waiting for her to listen was dumb.

When she wanted him to have control, she could be incredibly acquiescent. But in this moment, the circumstances were different. He was the one pushing for control here; she wasn't. She might have been doing what he wanted, might be willing to do it, but she wasn't motivated right now to let him dominate her in the way he needed. And he knew that if he truly wanted to master her at this point in time, he would have to seize control from her mercilessly.

Thankfully he was up to the challenge.

Not even giving her a chance to respond, he pressed his hands to her shoulders. His hands gripped her tightly, roughly, and he pushed her back onto the bed. He was towering over her now, Cuddy flat on her back like she belonged. Holding her there for a few seconds, House wanted to make it absolutely clear that she was not to move from this spot. When she didn't push him away or try to sit up, he assumed she'd gotten the message, so he let go of her.

But he didn't move away. Instead he allowed one of his hands to roam the length of her body. His fingers skating downward, over the swell of her breast and the rivets her ribs had created in her abdomen, he felt her cool, soft skin beneath his heated palm.

Truth be told, he was surprised by how cold she was. Thanks to the towel and all, he'd been able to deduce that she'd taken a shower after putting Rachel to bed. And since Cuddy hadn't gotten dressed again, he knew that she'd bathed recently. So really, she shouldn't have been this cold to the touch.

Immediately, House shook his head in an effort to push the thought out of his mind. Right now the last thing that mattered was the fact that he was going to need to turn the heat up in the house; he wasn't sure why he was even making a note of _that_ at the moment. Especially since Cuddy was naked beneath him, he should have been thinking of other things.

No, he was _going_ to think of other things.

Letting his hand move down even further, he lightly skimmed the curve of her hip before moving toward the apex of her thighs. Unfortunately for him, she'd clenched her legs together, forcing him to shake his head in disgust. "Now's not the time to act like a prude."

He was sure she would have spread her legs on her own for him, but he wasn't going to wait for that. Instead, he used both of his hands to push her thighs apart. He wasn't particularly gentle about it, and he was even rougher when he shoved two fingers inside of her.

She exhaled loudly at the sudden intrusion. She hadn't been expecting him to enter her so quickly much less without any preparation, and her muscles burned as his fingers filled her.

But her body didn't even have time to adjust before he pulled his fingers out of her. Scoffing in disgust, he stepped back. Cuddy would have liked to believe he'd come to his senses, but she knew better. He wasn't nearly ready to talk, despite the fact that he asked in irritation, "Do I have to do everything myself?"

House walked away, heading towards her dresser. She didn't have to ask him what he was doing; she knew: he was getting lubricant, because she wasn't wet enough on her own. But how could she be? When he'd given her no foreplay, not even the slightest bit of emotional build up to make her want this? Yeah, that wasn't going to happen… especially if he was going to be an ass.

As the thought flitted through her mind, she was tempted to glare at him. But she never got the opportunity; in his search for lube, he turned on the bedroom light to see, and she winced at the sudden brightness. So she had to voice her irritation. "It's not a fountain, House. You have to put a _little_ bit of work into getting me wet."

Rummaging through her drawers, he quickly found what he was looking for. Clutching the plastic bottle in his fist, he turned back to look at her.

She hadn't moved, which made him smirk.

"Really?" he asked snidely. "Considering who _you've_ slept with and how easy it is to get you off… I don't think your pussy –"

"Go to hell," she snapped, sitting up.

Cuddy wasn't actually angry (although she didn't appreciate her romantic past being thrown in her face like that). But she was reaching her limit in terms of patience.

He was as well. He'd been taking his clothes off, not noticing what she was doing. But the second he did, the second he realized she'd moved – when he'd made it clear that he didn't want her to – he was furious.

"What did I tell you?" he demanded. She looked at him blankly, which just pissed him off even more. "I told you to shut up. I told you not to move."

She shook her head a little bit. "You never said –"

"_Shut up_."

But if he'd been going for intimidating, she showed no signs of being scared. Because instead of lying back down, she replied with a smirk, "Make me."

"You don't want me to."

House knew that much to be true. He might have wanted control over this situation, over _her_, but the fact remained: he barely had enough poise to control himself.

He was completely on edge by what had happened, and Cuddy pushing him to talk was only making things worse. What Rachel had said… what it meant… he couldn't wrap his head around it; he couldn't understand why she would want _him_ in his life.

Hell, why did _any_ of these damn women care about him?

He wasn't nice.

He wasn't giving.

He wasn't supportive.

He just… wasn't what _anyone_ should have wanted to be around.

And most days House could pretend like that wasn't the truth, could act as though he really did belong here. The entire time, some part of him had felt like he was scamming everyone involved, but he'd selfishly ignored that voice in order to get what he wanted.

Now that he had it, now that he had Cuddy's love and, for some inexplicable reason, Rachel's seal of approval, he couldn't pretend like he'd really earned it. He couldn't act like this was okay.

But he still wanted to.

He shouldn't have; he should have just cut his ties and run, knowing he could never be what Cuddy or Rachel deserved. But… he didn't want to disappoint them, didn't want to give up this part of his life, so he clung to it.

Even as part of him desperately wanted to destroy it.

And because of that, he knew it was wrong to want control now. Or maybe it wasn't _wrong_ to want it, but it sure as hell wasn't a good idea to give it to him. But he couldn't help himself – _again_.

Once more, he was going against his better judgment and attempting the one thing he didn't deserve. And if Cuddy kept fighting him… he wasn't sure what would happen.

But he doubted it would be good.

Oh, he didn't think he would _hurt_ her – not physically anyway. That wasn't even an option in his mind. Yet, he worried nonetheless what his reaction might be if she kept denying him the one thing he had become convinced he needed.

Cuddy, however, didn't seem to realize this. "I think I do."

"_No_, you –"

"It's obviously what _you_ want," she interrupted knowingly. House shook his head in response, but she clearly didn't believe him. "You don't need to lie. We both know what you want."

"On your back," he said through gritted teeth as he stalked towards her once more.

She didn't move. "You think you want me to listen to you, but what you _really_ want is for me to fight you."

Standing between her open legs, he peered down at her in disbelief. "You don't know anything."

Her response was to take the bottle of lubricant out of his hand. Looking at him, she uncapped the plastic lid; it made a tiny snap, which seemed loud in the heated silence that seemed to settle over them.

He didn't anticipate the quiet to last long. Either she would fight him, or she would give in, and he would taunt her. Not surprisingly, Cuddy chose to go with the former.

As she squeezed a bit of lube into her right palm, she replied, "I know _you_." She closed the bottle and tossed it to the side. Curling her slick hand around the base of his penis, she slowly began to make him hard.

The fact that he wasn't already annoyed him. Rationally he understood that they'd had sex a _lot_ today; he could accept that his body had limits and that the more he railed against those limits, the longer it would take for his body to respond. But in this moment, he hated having to wait to do the one thing he needed. He might have complained about Cuddy not putting in work, but the truth was he didn't want her to.

He couldn't really explain why. Actually, truth be told, he couldn't even articulate the reasons he wanted to have sex now. It was impossible, trying to justify something that felt so jumbled in his head. All he knew was that he wanted this, _her_, without the conversation or niceties.

He did not want or need her to reassure him.

He did not want or need feelings to get in the way of this.

Not right now anyway.

He just wanted sex.

But of course, things couldn't be that easy. They'd had too much sex for things (or him) to be even remotely easy. And _that_ was frustrating.

Then again, House thought as she stroked his length, he supposed he shouldn't complain. There were far worse things in the world than _this_.

He was standing between Cuddy's legs, her thighs spread enough to both accommodate him and give him a few of her vulva. Her hand was curled around his cock. Her palm and fingers slick with lubricant, she was pumping him in long, firm strokes. Yeah, there was _plenty_ worse in the world.

In fact, he was convinced that there weren't many things that could be considered _better_ than this; Cuddy had many talents, but she really was unmatchable when it came to hand jobs… or any kind of sex for that matter. Honestly, she was so good that it was hard to remember why he'd ever been annoyed with her to begin with. And if he did at all, it was because he refused to let her think she could appease him by simply jerking him off. (She'd at least need to take it in the ass in order to accomplish _that_).

But _God_, she was good. At that moment, she pressed a warm kiss to his stomach. The change in position made her hair spill over her shoulders and tickle his upper thighs. And he hissed at the new sensation, the sound mixing with the loud moist sounds her fist stroking his penis was making. Desire coiling in the pit of his stomach quickly, he knew he needed to make his point before she made him come.

His hand carding through her hair so he could see the tenderness and concern in her face, he told her snidely, "See? I'm not hoping you'll tell me no."

She smiled like a wolf that had just received the key to the coop. "And yet, here I am," she said in a voice that made it seem like she was purring. Leaving the thought hanging for a moment, Cuddy took her time, kissing her way from his stomach downward in a long slick trail that made him thrust into her fist accidentally.

Every now and then, she would let her teeth graze his flesh, along his belly, hips, and thigh. But she purposely ignored his cock, which strained, _begged_ for her mouth.

Of course she wouldn't do that, he thought with only the slightest hint of misery; it was impossible to be completely miserable as she nuzzled his balls with her nose. But he mustered up as much disappointment and irritation as he could at the knowledge that she wouldn't blow him. She let her tongue lick his balls in one long stroke, but that was as far as she would go with her mouth.

It was his own fault sadly.

If he hadn't gotten the lube, maybe she would have been game. But he knew she wasn't going to suck him off now that he was covered in it.

Oh well.

However, he'd barely had time to recover from his disappointment before Cuddy finished her thought. "Doing exactly what you _didn't_ want me to do…"

He blinked. "What?"

"You wanted me on my back," she reminded him. "But I don't know. You seem to be enjoying _this_." She squeezed his cock to emphasize her words.

And to be perfectly honest, if he hadn't come so many times today or if he _had_ been thirteen again and completely inexperienced, she would have made him come right then and there. As it were, they'd been around the block multiple times, and he was tired, and, as a result, an orgasm was going to be that much harder to find.

But he wasn't complaining. Had he come, her smugness would have ruined any feelings of pleasure he might have felt, so he was actually relieved when he didn't.

And though part of him was tempted to let her keep stroking him until he _did_ have an orgasm, the rest of him refused to let that happen. Because if he did, then she would have been right; she would have proved her point, and _that_ was something he didn't want.

Knowing that, he asked her, "You think I'm going to turn a hand job down? Especially when I didn't even ask for one? Unless your name is Taub, chances are… that's not going to happen."

"_Right_."

Instantly, he pushed her hand away. He didn't really want to do that, but it had to be done. They'd been doing things her way for far too long.

His hands moving to her shoulders, he quickly pushed her backwards until she was lying on the mattress once more. Given his haste, he wasn't exactly gentle, but he didn't care.

"Don't move."

She opened her mouth to respond, but he wasn't interested in anything she had to say. And now that he was hard enough for sex, he knew he didn't _need_ to listen to her anymore.

Thrusting into her as hard and fast as he could, House wasn't surprised at the way her voice hitched in the back of her throat. They might have had the benefit of lube this time; to be sure, his dick was penetrating her a lot more smoothly than his fingers had, but she hadn't been lying when she'd said that she was sore. He knew that much.

But he didn't feel bad for her.

In the back of his mind, he told himself that, if it really hurt her, she would ask him to stop. She would _make_ him stop. And though she'd made her discomfort known by that little noise she'd made, she _wasn't_ following that up with a kick to the nuts. She wasn't doing _anything_ to show her displeasure.

And given that, House believed he'd been given the go ahead to continue.

He didn't need any more encouragement than that.

Withdrawing to the point where only the head of his cock remained snug inside her opening, he pushed himself into her once more. Again, he was rough, not stopping until he was buried to the hilt. But this time, he also allowed his body to sag into hers.

He put only the slightest bit of weight on his elbows, which meant that she was responsible for supporting the majority of him. He would have made her balance all his weight, but he didn't want to suffocate her in the process. Making her feel trapped and completely at his mercy? Yes. Killing her? Not so much part of his plan.

When he was satisfied she could still breathe, he repeated the process – pulling out, pushing back in without any concern for her. In and out, in and out, he wasn't sure if it was her natural juices doing the work at this point or if it was still just the lube.

Her tight little pussy squeezing him perfectly, House decided he really didn't care either way.

All that mattered to him now was this – the sex. Wet or not, she took all he could give. Even as the sound of his balls slapping against her ass filled the room, even as his body poured sweat with the effort in which he was _pounding_ her onto her body, she remained where she was, without complaint.

She didn't move, per his order. Every now and then, she would stroke his forearm with one of her fingers, but that was it. She clearly wanted to touch him. It was obvious that she wanted to do more for him than what he was allowing, but it was just as plain to see that she wasn't willing to cross those boundaries.

And honestly?

It drove him wild.

As he thrust into her once more, the sounds of his heart beating and their thighs rubbing together filled his ears. And he realized _finally_ what she'd been doing this whole time. Panting he understood now; refusing to do as he wanted, being as combative as she possibly could be in this situation… it was all an act, a fine line she'd chosen to walk.

For him.

When it was happening, he'd believed she hadn't understood at all. But now he could see precisely what it was she'd been doing.

She'd been purposely fighting him, intentionally provoking him, so that when he finally had control, it would be that much more satisfying.

It would feel like _this_.

Satisfying didn't even begin to describe this moment though. He was screwing her with all the force he could muster; she was lying there obediently, letting him do whatever he wanted. Her internal muscles were hotly clenched around him, her body as tight for him as she could make it. Yeah, no, satisfying, good, awesome – none of those words could even begin to describe how he felt.

But then again, he wasn't sure what word would be right, because at the moment… his feelings were hard to articulate.

On the one hand, he felt… relieved. More than a little aware of the less than savory parts to himself, House was always unsure how to approach these situations; when he knew he wouldn't be kind, when he wouldn't be the romantic boyfriend she deserved, he didn't know how far he would be allowed to take things. He didn't know how far he could push before she would say, "Enough!" And the fact that she wasn't pushing him away and was instead giving him precisely what he wanted filled him with relief.

But at the same time, he could tell that that emotion would easily bleed into gratitude and love if he let it. Already House could feel those things percolating within him, though he tried to write it off as him simply being close to coming. And maybe it was wrong to want to deny those feelings, but he did.

He _really_ did.

If he let himself feel too grateful, he would be reminded of just how undeserving he really was. If he let himself experience just how much he actually loved Cuddy, he would feel tempted to confide in her everything he was feeling. If he didn't restrain himself, he would feel both of those things. And he didn't like the combination or the situations it could potentially create.

Pressing his face into her shoulder, he told himself to just focus on the sex. If he simply thought about that, he could get through this, through this _night_. He knew he could.

Closing his eyes, he realized how easy it was to think about the sex only. Maybe if the sex had been bad, things would have been harder.

But this was far – _very_ far from bad… as it always was (save for the time that had resulted in stitches) with Cuddy. She always knew what to do and how to do it, and this was no different.

Although he was sure that she hadn't been in the mood when this began, he had no doubts that she was now. She was too wet for that, his dick sliding in and out of her with ease. Her muscles clenched and unclenched repeatedly in a way that only happened when she was trying to make herself come. And he liked that, because he was so close, and it felt so good.

He rocked his hips into hers, not caring that she was trying to meet him thrust for thrust now. She wasn't listening, but any resolve he might have had to control her crumbled under his fierce need for her.

After that, he didn't last much longer. He was hot, burning. Her body squeezing him, he felt as though each and every movement he made was akin to tossing kerosene on a burning flame. He couldn't get enough of her, his fingers digging into her breast and hips as he clutched her to him. He could feel one of her nipples scrape against the palm of his hand, and his thrusts became faster and harder in turn. His face pressed against her neck, he could feel her panting rasp in the back of her throat and vibrate her skin and the tip of his nose. And when he came suddenly, he bit her _hard_ to suppress the scream bubbling in the back of his throat.

Unfortunately, she _did_ cry out. Loudly. "Ow!"

Realization dawned on him slowly. His orgasm clouding his understanding, it took him a moment to realize that the sound she was making was _not_ a good one. And as he tasted the metallic tang of her blood on his tongue, he shamefully recognized that he hadn't simply nipped her.

Reluctantly, he lifted his head and opened his eyes. He didn't want to see the damage he'd done, but he knew he couldn't avoid it forever.

Blinking in the bright light, he saw the problem almost immediately. On the normally perfect, pale flesh of her neck were a series of small indentations that would absolutely match the alignment of his teeth. And in a few places, where he'd bitten down too hard, she was now bleeding. The bright red beads were small, but they seemed glaringly large against her pristine skin.

Immediately he understood:

He had done that.

He had hurt her.

Frozen in horror, House didn't know what to do.

Or say.

He'd _hurt_ her.

_Again_.

And like always, he hadn't meant to, but she was bleeding a little nonetheless, and he could taste her blood on him, and –

"I'm okay," Cuddy interrupted in a hurry, as though she knew where his thoughts were going.

He shook his head. "I hurt you."

"No. You didn't." With his weight still mainly on her, it was difficult for her to sit up and kiss him. But she managed, and he wondered if she could taste what a horrible person he was like he could. "You just… surprised me." And then repeating herself, she said slowly and with emphasis on each syllable, "I'm okay."

He didn't believe her.

But he wanted to, so he didn't say anything in response.

She, however, kept talking. One of her hands stroking his sweaty back, she asked him calmly, "Will you talk to me now?"

Suddenly feeling angry and not at all contrite, he pulled out and stood up. As he shoved his body back into his pajamas, he wondered: _Why_ was it so hard to get her to _shut up_? _Why_ couldn't she just accept that he wasn't ready yet? _Why_ did she have to keep pushing?

_Why_ weren't the sacrifices he'd already made for this relationship enough for her?

_Why_ did there always have to be _more_?

Oh, he knew the answer to the question as surely as she did: because she deserved better. She deserved someone who would say all the right things and love her little brat and be the perfect father and boyfriend. She deserved someone who didn't hurt her, and he clearly wasn't capable of that.

But why she had to push _now_, when he _knew_ he was incapable of giving her what she wanted, he didn't know. He didn't care, because her reasons meant nothing compared to the fact that he felt like he was being punished. He felt like she was throwing his inadequacies in his face.

And maybe that didn't make any sense.

His head swam with confusion and regret, and finding a thread of logic at the moment was difficult. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but feel like she was pushing for something he could never give her. And although he couldn't explain why he felt that way, he _did_ know one thing: if she knew he could never be that man for her, then it was time to let him go.

It was time to break up with him.

And yet… as much as he knew that he was tired of having the inevitable being constantly put off, he couldn't tell her that. He couldn't say the words. He couldn't _ask_ her to dump him.

Instead, he would do what he always did; he would put off the conversation. Looking at her, he said, "No."

Walking away, he was almost impressed by how resolved he sounded.

_To be continued_


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Notes: Thanks to Temo, EllieShelly, xxClouds, MissBates, Scuddyrific, jl1820, IHeartHouseCuddy, Josam, TrudyGill23, newsession, TetraFish06, red blood, Jane Q. Doe, HouseBroken, wrytingtyme, fasolka87, tuckp3, and Huddyphoric for taking the time to read and review. Also thank you to Huddylicious and samanthamaviner on Twitter for their encouragement. It means a lot.

_Disclaimer: I don't own it. _

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Twelve: Truth**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

When Cuddy entered the bedroom, a mug of hot tea in her hands, Rachel was fast asleep. Her thumb jammed into her mouth, her hair tangled all around her pale face, she looked completely relaxed. The nightmare that now kept the rest of the household awake was, ironically, the last thing on Rachel's mind, it seemed.

As Cuddy closed the bedroom door behind her, she recognized that this was a good thing. It certainly wasn't something to be resentful of. After all, Rachel shouldn't have been awake for this… emotional, familial… _catastrophe._

There really was no other way to put it.

This was, in every way, shape, and form, a complete disaster, and Cuddy was relieved that Rachel remained ignorant of the situation. Granted, if House didn't calm down, that would obviously change. But for the moment, Cuddy was happy that her daughter was unaffected by what was going on.

That was the only thing she was happy about though.

It went without saying that the sex had been… not good. She would have described it as awful, but she knew it hadn't been in the strict definition of the word. She had had awful sex before; this might not have been the best they'd ever had, but it still beat out multiple encounters she'd had in the past.

Internally she could hear House say that, given her taste in men, that wasn't saying much about his abilities. And she knew that he – or that voice inside of her head anyway – wasn't wrong; the sex might have been bad _for them_, but it was still pretty damn good when it came down to it. Yet she was disappointed anyway.

Maybe that meant she was spoiled; that she could find fault in the sex that had almost made her come, after having a slew of orgasms today, probably meant she was being greedy, her standards too high. But how could she think highly of what had just taken place?

By anyone's standards, this had been bad. At least House would certainly think so. He, of course, no doubt felt that he'd failed by making her bleed. And honestly, Cuddy had had little chance to dissuade him of the idea.

When it had happened, she'd cried out in pain, so what else would he have concluded? What else should he have thought?

Given her immediate reaction, it made sense that he should believe something along those lines. She probably would have concluded the same things had the situation been reversed.

Truthfully though, the bite was the last thing on her mind.

Had it hurt? Sure. Maybe a little. But really… if the move hadn't taken her completely by surprise, she more than likely wouldn't have reacted. After all, she'd had it rougher. Between young lovers who'd had no clue what they were doing and House, whose knowledge of her included her appreciation for games and the power play that came with them, she'd had experiences plenty harsher.

But typically House gave her warning, built up her tolerance to his roughness by gradually getting to that point. Tonight he'd just randomly gone there, gotten straight to the point, and she'd been caught completely off guard.

So naturally he had assumed the worst and run.

Well, okay, he hadn't _run_ so much as he'd shuffled out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him. But the effect was the same no matter the language.

He'd left before she'd had a chance to console him at all.

He'd gotten dressed so quickly that for a moment she'd felt like she was sixteen and sneaking boyfriends out of her bedroom window all over again. She'd been lying on top of the bed she shared with House, with her daughter sleeping down the hallway, but for an instant, Cuddy had been transported.

The smell of her father's cigarettes and her mother's perfume had wafted suddenly through the air. That oppressive feeling of guilt and desire for perfection they'd installed in their daughters had become so palpable once more Cuddy practically had been able to taste it; it had clung to her in the same way her envisioned, then-teenaged boyfriend had filled the room all those years ago with the scent of sex.

At that moment, on her lips and tongue had not been the salty tang of House's sweat but that of a boy whose name she could no longer remember. The semen warm and sticky between her legs had suddenly reminded her of those years where she'd been unable to find a boyfriend who'd wear a condom and the fear of getting caught (or pregnant) had punctuated every sexual encounter she'd had as a teenager. The proof of what she'd done and her guilt smeared messily across her labia, as though her own body had turned against her, all those years ago, she'd only been grateful to see her lover – what had his name been? – go.

And if Cuddy hadn't been able to tell the difference between then and now, it had been _that_ feeling that had brought her back to reality. This time, she hadn't wanted her boyfriend to go. On the contrary, all she'd wanted was for House to _stay_.

But he'd left anyway.

All right, maybe that was a little dramatic. Gently sitting next to Rachel's sleeping form, Cuddy recognized that she might have been overstating it. This time listening to make sure he wouldn't leave the house, she heard him close the door to his study. So he hadn't really gone anywhere.

Still… the fact that he'd walked away _at all_ made it impossible for her to think that the sex had been good. It certainly eliminated any belief she might have had that he was ready to talk to her.

Obviously he wasn't.

And the truly sick part about it all was that it didn't matter. How he felt, what he wanted – it didn't matter. Regardless of his feelings, they would have to talk. They would have to hash this out, no matter the consequences. She didn't particularly _want_ to do it, but she knew they would have to.

The reason was right in front of her, fast asleep.

At the mere thought of Rachel, Cuddy smiled into the heated ceramic of her mug. She'd originally only come in here to give House some space; she'd known that they would have to talk, but she'd wanted to give him some time to calm down. But this visit in the middle of the night was providing Cuddy with much more than time and space to think.

It also reminded her _why_ this was so important.

When she was just with House, it was almost easy to forget or abandon all sense of urgency. But now with Rachel in front of her, Cuddy knew why she needed to get through to him tonight.

Admittedly, she could have defended her thinking in a thousand different ways, couched her choices as a move made for their relationship or something along those lines. But what it came down to was Rachel.

It came down to wanting to protect her, to keep her from ever learning about any of _this_.

As it was, she knew too much. When Cuddy had put her to bed, Rachel had already begun to show her embarrassment over and understanding of the situation. She'd already started to regret admitting that she cared about House. And if she ever found out just how upset House was, she would be devastated.

She wouldn't understand that the problem was _him_. She wouldn't see the reasons why he was acting the way he was. She didn't know much about his childhood or his life before her, and she wouldn't comprehend that he was afraid, thanks to things that were far beyond her control.

What Rachel _would_ do was assume that _she_ was the problem. She would believe that she'd made a mistake.

And Cuddy supposed it was a life lesson everyone had to learn at some point: feelings weren't always reciprocated. But Rachel was _five_, and House wasn't some teenage boy with a cool car and fake I.D. He was a little bit more important than that, and his rejection would be far more devastating than that would ever be. Because honestly, House was the closet thing Rachel had to a father, and if he rejected her, the ramifications of that would be _far_ more serious, far more lasting.

God, Cuddy didn't want to put it this way, but the truth was: this was the kind of thing that turned young girls into future strippers with daddy issues.

And that thought chilled her to her very core.

The tea in her hands might have been hot still; curls of steam plumed out of the top of the mug in the same way chimneys spewed smoke into the night sky. But it could no longer provide her with any sort of warmth. Its heat couldn't touch the places she needed it too.

And because of that, Cuddy was grateful that she no longer needed the tea to stay awake. That was why she'd made it, of course. It was an herbal tea, but the mint in it usually perked her up. Which she'd thought was necessary in order to make it through a conversation with House.

Now, however, she was so awake, thanks to her concern for her daughter, that she didn't even need the peppermint. The very idea that Rachel would get hurt was more than enough of a stimulant for Cuddy.

It was certainly more than enough to fill her with the need to talk to House _now_.

Casting one last glance at Rachel's sleeping form, Cuddy stood up. She was tempted to give her daughter a kiss, but at this point, Cuddy suspected that that simple act would wake her up. And given the way the day had gone, that wasn't exactly an insane thought. So Cuddy resisted the urge, instead taking the moment to silently pray to whatever or whomever might have been listening to keep her daughter from _ever_ having a sex tape.

But she doubted anyone heard her.

So much for being the devout Jew that House seemed to fear she was, she thought wryly. If he only knew. Then again, it was probably better that he didn't.

As she walked towards the kitchen, she couldn't help but think that the last thing he needed was to know any of her thoughts. Aside from being heavily burdened by his own, if he knew what she was thinking…

Cuddy doubted he would believe anything she had to say to comfort him tonight.

Actually, in that case, he definitely wouldn't believe her. In that instance, he would know that she didn't want Rachel to get hurt and assume that that meant everything she said was a desperate lie. He would tell himself that she was only comforting him for Rachel's sake. And as Cuddy placed her mug of tea in the sink with a loud clank, she knew that that couldn't have been further from the truth. But if he found some reason to believe it… she would never get through to him.

Which was why Cuddy had no intention of emphasizing the effect all this would have on her daughter. Then again, she doubted she would need to.

Padding with bare feet towards his office, she told herself that a rational man like House would have seen the potential ramifications to his behavior all on his own. Especially since he'd had some time to consider the matter, he would have realized by now all the ways this could go, so he didn't need her to point any of _that_ out.

At least, given his potent fatalism, he didn't need her to show him how things could go _wrong_.

What he _did_ need, she suspected, was someone who could remind him that there was far – _far_ – more to him than the negative qualities he would inevitably fixate on. And if she couldn't be that for him, then they really didn't belong together. If she couldn't convince him that, actually, he _was_ ready _and_ worthy of his shift in their relationship, no, she didn't deserve him.

To be sure, _he_ had already decided tonight that they were incompatible. He was probably sitting in his office acting like they'd already broken up.

But that fact just made her even more resolved to get through to him.

In the very least, it would be fun to prove him wrong. She rarely got to do it, so she looked forward to being in the right this time.

And between that and the timeframe bearing down on her heavily, Cuddy was more than enthusiastic when she opened the door to his office. She realized she should have knocked, but she couldn't exactly be bothered by the rudeness of the move. Instead, she silently shut the door behind her ominously and refused to give him the option of leaving.

But at that moment, leaving had to be the last thing on his mind; he looked too distracted for that.

House was perched on the window seat along the back wall. The cushions that usually lined the wooden bench were stuffed under his bad leg and behind his back. Yet he looked anything but comfortable and relaxed.

In one hand, he held a glass of bourbon. She could tell, because the bottle was cradled in his lap, and she doubted very much that this was his first helping. In the other hand was a lit cigarette, which was proof enough that he was filled with nervous energy.

He rarely smoked. When he did, he was either desperate for the Vicodin or so consumed by his thinking that he didn't want the sounds of music or balls bouncing to distract him. And in this instance, she wasn't so sure that those two options were mutually exclusive.

He clutched the cigarette tightly, so tightly that she was surprised that he hadn't snapped it in two. And when the vice of his knuckles did let up every now and then, he took to rolling the cigarette between his fingers, his thumb occasionally stroking its length.

There was something incredibly frenetic about these small subtle movements, something that not only assured her that she would be kissing cigarette burns on hands for weeks but also made her suspect that the wounds she couldn't see would last much longer. It was something that said this problem would take more than a couple hours to get over.

Of course, she already knew _that_ much. She knew that House's demons would never be slain in a time period that suited her. She knew that if those doubts had festered inside of him for this long, he wouldn't be easily reassured. But she supposed she wasn't looking for perfection.

She just needed a façade Rachel couldn't see through.

But maybe that was asking for too much. At this particular moment, it seemed like it was. He was distracted to the point that he hadn't even noticed her presence. His faraway gaze was trained on some invisible point in the backyard, the window next to him open to help clear the smell of smoke.

Fresh flakes of snow lazily cascading in through the opening, every now and then a piece would land on his dark pajama pants or on his arm. But he didn't move, didn't say anything. She found it hard to believe that he wasn't cold sitting there, but it was probably for the best that he stayed where he was; if he was going to smoke, she didn't want the smell to filter down to Rachel's room, where it could agitate her asthma. Then again, Cuddy supposed _that_ was why he'd opened the window to begin with.

And if that were true, that was more than enough proof that he belonged here. But before she could even open her mouth to ask him, he suddenly turned his head to look at her.

His gaze was sad, unsure, but his voice was snide. "I'm a little busy, so… off to bed you go."

"'Busy,'" she repeated doubtfully, folding her arms across her chest. "Doing what exactly?"

She was tempted to add, "Destroying your liver? Giving yourself emphysema? Pouting?" But she forced herself to resist the urge. He was in a bad place as it was, the words she _had_ said more than likely accusatory to his ears anyway; she didn't want to further _that_ impression.

After all, this wasn't supposed to be a confrontation. She was trying to _help_ him. And he definitely wouldn't accept assistance if she forced a fight with him.

But he seemed to think that a fight was precisely what she wanted, because he immediately replied bitterly, "Brooding. Which means my disembowelment's going to have to wait. Sorry to disappoint you."

At that, House forced down the last bit of liquor in his glass. She anxiously anticipated him to reach for the bottle in his lap and refill his tumbler, but he never made a move to do that.

To be honest, that bolstered her confidence a little bit. Had his drinking been frenzied, she would have taken the act to mean that he was beyond listening. Had that been the case, at that point, he would have been so entrenched in his own wrong-headed thinking that alcohol would have been his only source of relief.

But since he _wasn't_ drinking like that, Cuddy could only conclude that he still had enough self-control and enough of a _desire_ to be in control to listen to her.

How long would _that_ last though?

By her estimation, the answer to that was not that long, which meant she needed to make her point quick.

"Disembowelment?" she asked in surprise. Shaking her head a little, she was about to say, "Why would I want to do that?" But she didn't get past the third word, because out of the corner of her eye, she saw something lying on his desk. Her voice trailed off as she tried to place why the thing looked so familiar.

Admittedly, she had more important things to do at that moment. The way House was looking at her expectantly only reaffirmed that belief. And yet… she couldn't help but stare at the brightly colored shard of… what was it?

Curious, she took a few steps towards his desk. She was more than aware that he was watching her intently, but her interest in the object took priority. And when she was close enough to it to recognize the colorful pattern on the porcelain, she understood why she'd been drawn to the object to begin with.

It was her bowl – the one her father had given her, the one Rachel had broken.

Now it was apparently the bowl House was trying to fix.

Spinning around, Cuddy looked at him with a smile on her face. "You're gluing it back together?"

He nodded his head once but didn't say anything.

"You don't have to do that," she told him quietly.

Part of her, though a _very_ small one, actually meant that. As much as she hadn't wanted to throw away a gift from her father, she'd accepted it; thinking that there was no way for it to be fixed, she'd been forcing herself to say goodbye to the object that shouldn't have held so much meaning.

Even if she hadn't done that though, one look at House's desk had told her that this was hardly a small project. There were pieces everywhere, scattered about on nearly every corner of his desk. As quickly as he worked, it would take him a long time to glue every tiny shard back together. And in those days he would spend, what guarantee was there that a tiny sliver wouldn't go missing or that the whole thing would look as brilliant as it had when Cuddy's father had first given it to her?

There wasn't one, she knew, and in that case… she hated to think it, but honestly, she just wished he wouldn't even try.

House, however, didn't seem to understand that, because he said rudely, "Kinda did have to. Cause if I didn't… well, you would have continued to pout like Lindsay Lohan in a courtroom."

She was tempted to point out that _she_ wasn't the one using the word, brooding, to make _his_ pouting seem manlier. But she didn't. She wanted to – _God_, she wanted to – but again, she didn't want a fight. And besides, Cuddy knew that he was only being obnoxious to divert her attention from what he had done for her.

Of course, in her opinion, he didn't _need_ to do that. He was her boyfriend; he did nice things for her all the time. Over the years, he had gone from overtly romantic gestures (well, as romantic as stolen flowers with sexually explicit cards could be) to smaller, more subtle things, but the one common thread every year shared was that kindness towards her was hardly a rarity. It _definitely_ wasn't something he needed to be ashamed of.

But with the way he looked, with the way he was acting… he definitely seemed embarrassed by his behavior.

And truthfully he _was_. He didn't want to be, because the whole idea was stupid; that he should be uncomfortable by the prospect of doing something that should have felt normal by now _was_ stupid. But then again… it wasn't the display of kindness that bothered him. It was the fact that he had started to fix that bowl, had allowed himself to be open about how much he loved her, and…

She was going to dump him anyway.

She was going to break his heart, over something that had been there all along: Rachel. And the thing was, he had _known_ this was how it was going to end. From day one, House had understood that this was how their relationship would go. He'd known there'd be a honeymoon period, though he had been amazed at how long _that_ had lasted. He'd known there'd be a period where things would start to go south, but she'd tell herself that they could work through all of that. And then there'd be an amount of time where she would realize that they _couldn't_ work it out, that he _couldn't_ change, but she'd be in denial about… until denial didn't work and the inevitable happened.

Yes, he had seen the trajectory this was all going to take. And yet…

This had _still_ taken him off guard, and he couldn't help but feel like a _fool_ for not seeing it.

He hadn't seen it coming at all.

Only hours ago he'd been gluing that damn bowl back together. He'd been completely unaware of what was to come, despite knowing that it would happen at _some _point. And maybe it was a waste of energy to feel like a complete moron given what was about to happen, but he couldn't stop himself from feeling hot self-loathing burning the flesh of his cheeks. He wished he could, but that just wasn't happening.

Then again, was there any point? She was going to dump his ass anyways, so who really gave a damn that he'd been duped or pathetic right before it happened?

House was tempted to say that he wouldn't care, but he knew that was a lie.

He would remember every second of the day Cuddy broke up with him.

And he would torture himself with every minute detail for the rest of his life.

He didn't _want_ to do that, but he knew that that was how it would go. That was how it had been with Stacy, and now would be no different. Which was why he thought he would never forget the way Cuddy said gently at that moment, "Thank you."

It was quite possibly the last thing he expected her to say. Given the circumstances, he hadn't even begun to anticipate how to react to such a line. She was thanking him? That… wasn't supposed to occur, not right now, not _ever_ by his calculations, and the fact that it _was_ occurring confused him to no end.

It left him speechless actually.

She just smiled at that, at _him_, and he thought she was lucky that he felt so lost; if he'd been able to find his voice, she wouldn't have liked his reaction. But unable to articulate (and perhaps unwilling to as well) the fear and rejection he keenly felt, he had no choice but to sit there and watch her.

In doing so he was clearly making her uncomfortable. She was shifting on her feet at odd intervals, although, given the way her hardened nipples poked at the thin white cotton of her top, she might have just been cold. But if she was going to end their relationship, House certainly wasn't going to make her feel at ease about the whole thing.

He sure as hell wasn't going to provide her with a segue.

She might have wanted one, but he couldn't do _that_. He wouldn't.

Inevitably though this meant he had to watch her squirm in the uncomfortable silence descending over them. The air both heated with awkwardness and chilled by it, she obviously was unsure how to proceed.

The proof of that was in every movement she was making; she had one hand pressed against the apple of her cheek, which she only did when she was embarrassed or unsure about something. But he refused to be moved by the action.

And yet, doing that wasn't so easy when, out of habit, she slid her hand down to her neck. Her palm grazing the place _he_ had hurt her, she flinched in pain.

She quickly tried to hide it. She hadn't meant to remind him of what had happened earlier. But out of habit, Cuddy had touched her neck, and out of surprise, she'd flinched again. And though she hurriedly tried to make it seem like she'd just been letting her hands fall to her sides, an innocent gesture really, it was too late. She could see the flash of guilt in House's eyes already, and there was no pretending like the bite wasn't there.

That possibility gone, she knew that she could only try to comfort him. She'd put it off long enough, made shy by the awkwardness of the conversation. And there was no avoiding it any longer.

Calmly moving towards him, she said in soft tones, "House…." She stopped when she was standing next to him, but he refused to look at her then. His gaze was cast downward onto the lit cigarette in his hand. "I love you," she said with as much honesty as she could infuse into those three words.

"But?" Without saying anything else, he flicked the cigarette out the window. By design, he wasn't exactly a smoker; he certainly wasn't a regular one, and perhaps irritated by the smell – or sensing that _she_ was – he tossed the lit butt out the window.

And for a fraction of an instance, Cuddy waited with baited breath. He hadn't bothered to stub the cigarette out. Granted, it had been snowing all day, all week actually. But the fact remained that there were bushes right outside the window, and was it truly crazy, given all that had occurred this weekend, to worry that the damn bushes would catch on fire?

She really didn't think so. But it must have been, because seconds later, nothing had gone wrong. There were no flames, no smell of smoke (save for the lingering scent in the room) – nothing to worry about.

Well… nothing except for House, she corrected.

In the small amount of time since he'd spoken, he'd become even more unhinged looking. She hadn't thought that possible, but here he was, looking like he would lose it at any moment. His entire body appeared tense, every vein and muscle in his body seemingly prominent.

Honestly she didn't understand it. She'd said, "I love you," but he was acting like he was bracing himself for a blow he didn't realize would never come.

So she would just have to make herself clearer, she told herself.

"'But'?" she repeated in confusion. "But… what? But _nothing_," she said, accentuating the word as much as she could. "That was the end of the sentence. I love you. Period."

Cuddy waited for him to return the sentiment. She wasn't so insecure these days that she needed him to say the words every time she said them, but if there had ever been a time where saying, "I love you too," was needed….

Maybe she didn't _need_ to hear it, she immediately told herself. But it would have been nice.

And yet he said nothing.

_Nothing_.

He didn't even look at her.

In fact, he didn't react at all.

Oh, Cuddy didn't doubt that he had heard her. She could tell that he was paying attention to every move she was making; he was listening. Yet the message wasn't getting through.

Not one to back down, she decided she simply needed to make herself clearer; if the message wasn't seeping into his _stubborn_ brain, then she would repeat it until he had no choice but to actually _hear_ what she was saying.

"House," she said firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder. Unsurprisingly the worn material of his t-shirt was cold, and she couldn't help but run her fingertips along his shoulder blade to infuse some warmth into him.

As she did so, she repeated, "I love you."

Still, he said nothing.

"So…." She spoke slowly in an attempt to keep her burgeoning irritation to a minimum. "You're not going to say it back? You're just going to –"

"Why would I?" he asked abruptly, his gaze snapping to meet hers.

She was taken aback by the ferocity in his tone. "Because it's true?" she said carefully. "Because I said it to you, so –"

"Yeah," he said, shaking his head. "And I know you like to play with your prey before you go in for the kill, but I'm not in the mood to play that game. So if we could just hurry this along a little bit, that'd be _swell_."

House knew he sounded bitter, knew that he was baiting her. But truly, he couldn't handle this anymore; the tentative conversation had worn away what little patience he had, and all he wanted now was for it to be over. Because as much as he didn't want their relationship to end, he didn't think he could bear another moment of not knowing when she would strike.

She clearly couldn't appreciate that though. Her eyebrows knitted in confusion, she said, "I…." That was all she said before her voice trailed off.

He knew why. It was impossible not to see the way her face lit up in recognition, though he would have preferred not to; there was something about being able to see the wheels turning inside of her head that made him feel irrationally resentful. Whether it was the fact that it made her seem stupid or him simple, he didn't know, but the move made him roil apart with anger.

But she didn't know that. In fact, she seemed completely unaware of it as she slowly worked out what was going on. "You think… I'm what? _Toying_ with you?" She said the words as though the notion was ridiculous. "Why would I do that?" However, she must have figured out the answer to that question, because before he could speak, she said knowingly, "You think I'm breaking up with you."

Cocking his head to the side, he told her with a sneer, "Deductive reasoning in a dean of medicine. Shocking. I didn't realize you were capable of that."

Her molars clicked against one another as she clenched her jaw tightly. A well of insults collected on the tip of her tongue, and he was making it so hard to resist the temptation to hurl each and every one at him. And if she kept her mouth shut at all, it was because she knew her anger was precisely what he wanted.

Or if not what he wanted, then it was what he thought he _deserved_, she corrected. If he really thought that she wanted to break up with him, then he clearly believed he'd done something wrong. And if he'd come to that conclusion, then it wasn't so hard to see that he was trying to get a rise out of her to make it easier on himself.

That was what she was gleaning from his behavior anyway, though at this point, she was more than willing to concede that she could have been completely wrong. But it made sense in the twisted way everything House did always made sense.

Of course, _he_ was completely off the mark about her intentions. There might have been an internal logic about his thinking, but not for an instant did it actually reflect what was _really_ going on here. And although he was being insulting enough, she knew that it would be wrong to let him think he was right for even a _second_ by yelling at him.

Yes, House was being a _complete_ jackass, but he didn't deserve that kind of treatment.

And so, though it pained part of her to ignore his insults, she forced herself to. She knew escalating a fight would do them no good.

What _would_ help though? Truth be told, Cuddy didn't know. Yelling at him was obviously out, but that left a world of possibilities, all too vague to truly stand out. She thought about talking to him some more, but since that had yielded dismal results so far, she supposed she needed to try something else. But what?

A solution immediately popped into her head: a kiss Admittedly it was a clichéd one; she would never deny that. But if it would work, she was more than willing to cop to being uncreative.

Her hand on his shoulder, she leaned down. Loose curls spilled down in front of her face, and she had to quickly push them out of the way so she could look House in the eye; she wanted it to be absolutely clear how much she loved him.

She didn't say anything. She just met his purposefully hardened gaze. Nearly imperceptibly, he shifted at the sight of her eyes filled with warmth and concern meeting his own. Obviously she was making him a little uncomfortable, but she didn't mind that. She just wanted him to get the point.

She wasn't sure that had happened, but when he ceased flinching and didn't push her away, she allowed her line of sight to flicker downwards towards his mouth.

The ends of his lips were lightly turned into a frown (though had she expected differently?), and his jaw, covered by the stubble he rarely shaved off completely, was clenched tightly together. He seemed so sad, so unsure of himself that when she pressed her mouth to his, she was pleasantly surprised by the fact that he didn't jump.

Immediately he responded. Cuddy would have smiled at that, except he would have felt it. And she didn't want him to assume she was gloating; that would just give him more of an excuse to act like an asshole. So instead, she only inwardly allowed herself to feel the slightest bit of comfort at knowing that she'd made a good choice in kissing him.

Then again, how could showing affection to the man she loved so entirely ever be the wrong decision?

She didn't bother answering that question. Doing that was hardly important when compared to the fact that he was opening his mouth to her, responding to her lips with his own.

Her hands moved to his neck, her thumbs gently stroking his jaw line. The stubble was rough underneath her fingertips, but it was the only thing rough about this moment between them. His hands had somehow found her. His palms were pressed into her belly, the thin cotton of her tank top protecting her from the coolness of his flesh. He wasn't pulling her toward him, as he typically did when he wanted her. He wasn't pushing her away either, despite the fact that she knew part of him must have been thinking he should.

Actually, House seemed to be content to simply touch her, his fingers splayed so that he could feel as much of her as the span of his hands would allow. He wanted her - she knew he did - but he was behaving differently. He was calmer, not relaxed or restrained really; she could feel the frenetic energy beneath her fingertips desperate to escape. But at the moment, he seemed... appreciative of the reprieve she was giving him.

To be sure, in his mind, he probably thought they were going to continue to fight after this, but it was equally apparent that he was willing to let go of all of that for this.

Her lips softly brushed against his, her tongue tentatively meeting his, stroking him. The acridness of the bourbon he'd been drinking coated her taste buds, but she wasn't resentful. It helped mask the lingering taste of the cigarette he'd been smoking, which she was grateful for. And even if his unhealthy, repulsive version of a midnight snack had seriously bothered her, she wouldn't have complained, wouldn't have let herself even think of complaining.

Right now, as much as he needed this kiss, Cuddy did as well.

In moments like this, where he seemed so damaged - _too_ damaged - she wanted the reminder. She'd never actually forgotten why she'd entered this relationship, why she loved House, but it was nice to have the proof right in front of her. It was nice to have new reasons to fight as hard as she did for them.

Bolstered, she pulled away from him. For a brief instant, his head leaned forward a little bit, his body instinctively not ready for the kiss to end. Again, she would have smiled, but she didn't want to upset him.

Still leaning over, Cuddy kept her gaze trained on his. And speaking as slowly as she could, with as much conviction as she could muster, she told him, "I love you. I have no intention of breaking up with you. I love you, House."

She was sure he believed her when he quickly looked away. Doing that meant he didn't want her to see how deeply her words had affected him. But that didn't matter, because when he spoke, his words gaze away the myriad of emotions lying just beneath the surface. "I bit you," he said miserably, apologetically.

Instantly she understood: in his attempt at avoiding her eyes, he'd caught sight of her neck and felt guilty immediately for what he'd done.

"That doesn't matter, " she said emphatically.

And it didn't. He'd made her bleed - a glance in the mirror had told her as much - but it was little more than a superficial wound. In a few days, the miniscule places where the skin had broken would heal over, and she would be fine. Perhaps a little embarrassed by the fact that she was a woman in her forties with a child and now also with a hickey, but other than that, she would be fine.

He didn't get that though.

"You think I'm going to break up with you for giving me a hickey?" She shook her head as though the idea was preposterous (which honestly it was). "Of all the things we've done to one another, you think that's going to be what pushes me over the edge?" She didn't give him a chance to answer before she kissed him again; she didn't want to give him the opportunity to be offended by her words, and following the question up with a quick peck was the best way she knew how to show him she wasn't being serious. "You've switched my birth control pills, broken nearly every piece of equipment and fought with nearly every employee in the hospital. You spend your days making lewd comments about my body, and when you aren't, you're grabbing it as delicately as Rachel pet that rabbit at the petting zoo." Her lips quirked into a smile, and she pointed out, "This morning you inquired about involving _urine_ in our _sex life_. I'm not going to dump you for _this_."

Cuddy gestured to her neck, but he didn't look. So he must have still felt guilty, she supposed. "I'm not twelve and afraid my mother's going to know I was making out with a boy. And I would have thought that you would know by now that I'm not afraid of things being a little rough either."

Under normal circumstances, she would have braced herself for the slew of insults and quips headed her way. Given that she'd mentioned work, watersports, the fact that she'd been making out with boys at twelve, her penchant for rough sex, and her mother, Cuddy knew that she'd given House more than enough material. But in this particular instance, she wasn't worried about that. Maybe she was giving House too much credit here, but she really believed that he was too desperate for her reassurance to make fun of whatever she offered.

Indeed, she saw the mischief glinting in his eyes. As though a metaphorical light bulb had gone off, she could practically see the synapses in his brain taking everything she was saying and parsing out every embarrassing or joke-worthy detail. Truth be told, Cuddy had no doubts that at some point she would pay for what she'd said. He couldn't resist. She was just hoping that he would restrain himself now.

Maybe that was hoping for too much.

But it didn't seem like it, because his response was not a quip, not an insult, or anything of that sort. Instead, he changed the subject completely by uttering one word that encompassed so much: "Rachel."

House hadn't wanted to discuss it. Ever. But not wanting to concede that maybe she had a point about her neck, he was left with no other topic.

Oh, he knew he could have tried to drop the matter all together. But that wouldn't have worked. How could it have when Rachel was the reason for everything that had happened? It couldn't. Even if he'd refrained from mentioning it, Cuddy sure as hell wouldn't have. She absolutely would have brought it up.

And no, he didn't want to talk about it - _ever_. Which was why he'd given her the option for a clean end to their relationship, no awkward discussion necessary. But Cuddy had clearly rejected that, and he certainly wasn't going to be the one ending things, so now he was left with no choice but to have the messy conversation that would inevitably leave them both broken-hearted and resentful.

He didn't want to believe that the ending had already been set in stone; it definitely didn't make the talk they were going to have any more enticing. Yet he didn't doubt that he was right. He knew he was. Cuddy might have wanted to avoid a break up, but really, how could they?

Based on his logic, they couldn't.

And even if she disagreed, she must have realized the gravity of the situation. Because the second he uttered Rachel's name, Cuddy looked as though whatever confidence she'd had had just left her.

Well, welcome to the club, he thought bitterly.

He wanted to say that out loud, but knowing it wouldn't do anyone any good, he sat there quietly as she joined him on the window seat. Perching herself on the sliver of bench he hadn't taken up, she accidentally nudged his hip with her ass as she tried to settle in next to him. But since she was insisting on facing him, there was no way she was going to be comfortable; her back was unsupported, her feet on the floor, but she didn't complain.

Instead, she repeated what he said, "Rachel."

"Yeah." Only the slightest bit of irritation escaped him in the single word. He supposed he could qualify that as a success, considering.

Cuddy, on the other hand, remained calm. "You think I'm going to dump you hours after Rachel says she cares about you? After all we've –"

"Don't do that," he snapped in irritation.

She didn't understand. "Do what?"

"You _know_."

"If I had any idea what you were talking about, I wouldn't ask –"

"Don't act like this doesn't mean anything when you know it does," he interrupted in warning.

She shook her head a few times. "I wasn't."

House remained unconvinced though. "You _were_."

"Just because I don't think it's the end of the world doesn't mean I –"

"You honestly believe that," he said in realization. He hadn't thought she was _that_ stupid, but the way she was speaking made it very clear that she was, in fact, _that_ dumb. "Then you're an _idiot_."

She frowned. "I'm not –"

"You think Rachel liking me is a _good_ thing?" He nodded his head emphatically and told her disdainfully, "If you actually believe that, _yeah_, your I.Q. is in the double digits."

He understood that the words were insulting. But in this case, he wasn't lying; if she really thought that they didn't have a problem here, she simply didn't get it.

And it pained him to have to make her comprehend what was going on, because who in the hell really wanted to have to tell their girlfriend that she needed to go her own merry way? He didn't want to do it, not at all, but what choice did he have? He could keep her in the dark, but at some point she would realize what the truth was, and then she would dump him anyway. And he did _not_ want to spend the next days, months, _years_ maybe waiting for the other shoe to drop.

That, he thought, might have been a fate even worse than the one a break up _now_ would create. Because as much as he didn't want to force her hand, he knew that he couldn't live in the limbo that situation would birth. He just _couldn't_, which meant his only choice was to show Cuddy just how wrong she was.

And for that, he was calmer, less offensive. As much as part of him wanted to be as rude and crass as he could be to protect himself, he knew that would backfire. It would just make her want to fight him on the subject. So he forced himself to talk in a quieter, more rational manner. "You want to believe that this can work out, because that would make you happy. You… want to believe I'm a good choice, because if I'm not, you know this can't go on."

He sighed and looked away – just for a moment though – before continuing. "You don't want to face this, but… we both know Rachel deserves someone who… is _not_ like me. I –"

"You think I don't know your flaws?" she interrupted in a voice that was both joking and curious. "You think I just got really drunk one night and said, 'Oh, what the hell, House and I haven't had sex in a while'?"

He shrugged his shoulders a little. To be perfectly frank, he never really understood what had driven her to him. All he knew was that she'd been happy with Lucas, and then she hadn't been, and the next thing House had known he'd been in bed with Cuddy himself.

In his mind, there had been and still was no logic behind that move, and every opportunity he'd taken to ask Cuddy what her logic had been had been met with non-answers and anger.

She'd always resented that line of questioning, and he supposed he understood why. In those moments, she'd assumed that he was asking her out of _doubt_, that he was saying she didn't know what she wanted. But that couldn't have been further from the truth. He'd asked, because he didn't understand why she would want someone like _him_.

An awful truth now inherent in her question, he couldn't even begin to offer her an answer of his own. Pride denied him the ability to admit that he had no idea why she'd entered this relationship. And yet every defense he possessed failed him when it came to creating a quip or a lie; his verbalized armor had been stripped away by Rachel's confession and the knowledge it had both created and forced him to confront.

Of course though, Cuddy took his silence as assent. "You actually think that, don't you?" she said in surprise, in disgust.

House thought about correcting her, thought about saying that he didn't know what to think. But then he realized that, out of a need to show him the error of his ways, she would _finally_ give him the answer he was looking for if he kept his mouth shut all together. She would explain to him why she'd wanted him at all. And wanting – _needing_ – that so badly, he kept quiet.

"You're _wrong_," she told him in a voice that approached bitter.

She waited for him to say something, _anything_ in response. But when he didn't, she knew something wasn't right. After all, she'd just said he was _wrong_. To him wrong was essentially an insult – and an awful one at that. Saying that almost always led to a heated argument.

But this… wasn't?

Why?

Because….

Her mind quickly worked to solve the problem in front of her. She'd said he was wrong, but he said nothing. She'd given him ample time to respond, but he remained silent. So that must have meant that he wasn't offended… and the only way _that_ would be the case was if… he thought he was wrong as well?

No, she thought with a mental shake of the head. If he thought he was wrong, he would have fought her when she'd originally brought up the subject. If he'd had a different theory about their relationship, he would have shared it. Or if he didn't share it, he would have breezed past that topic of conversation. But he wasn't doing any of that. So…

He didn't think he was wrong. He just… _wanted_ to be wrong, she realized finally.

Cuddy didn't bother to consider why that might be. She would later, but at the moment, she was simply happy to have the opportunity to tell him just how incorrect he was.

With a smile she couldn't suppress, she explained in a much friendlier voice, "Whenever a family member of one of your patients comes to me to complain, they complain about one of two things: that you're being a jerk – _obviously_." He smirked a little at that, thankfully. "Or that you're making their relative worse. They… see clusters of severe symptoms and assume that, since you haven't automatically cured them, you're making things worse. They believe that _you're_ responsible for their loved one being so ill."

"I'm _assuming_ there's a point to all this. You're not just telling me something I could have guessed if I ever cared enough to –"

"The _point_ is that they only see what's happening in that moment. You think I was _impulsive_ coming to you, choosing _you_," she said knowingly, her gaze trained on him. "But the truth is… you and I spent the better part of our lives pretending like this wasn't _absolutely_ what we wanted."

At that Cuddy sighed and confessed, "I tried _so hard_ not to want you. The first time we met, you knew me, in thirty seconds, better than anyone else ever had, and I thought if I just… _slept_ with you, I'd be fine."

There was a slight nod of his head that was proof he was following along, that he understood. "I wanted you," she admitted honestly. "But I thought if I let myself sleep with you, I'd be able to get past you."

She really had believed that. Now it seemed stupid to even consider doing that, but at the time, she had honestly thought that, if she'd given into the one thing that tempted her, she would never want it – _him_ – again.

Of course, that hadn't been the case. He'd been an itch that once scratched threatened to consume her. Far from over him – as far away as one could have possibly been – she'd only wanted him more after their one shared night together.

And that had terrified her.

Without exaggeration, it honestly had. Because back then, she'd only expected and been prepared for a brief tryst that would mean nothing when morning came. And when she'd realized that what had been right in front of her was _much_ more than that, she'd been faced with the dilemma of choosing: her career or House.

Even now, it seemed overly dramatic to put it that way. But she believed whole-heartedly that there had been a choice to make; she could either pursue her dream or have all of that swept away by being associated with House.

He would have never wanted her to face that decision. He would have never asked her to. The rest of the world, however, wouldn't have been so kind, and she had known at the time that, if she acted on her feelings for House, the rest of the world would have penalized her for it.

Any intelligence she'd had would have suddenly not been her own. If she'd aced a test, diagnosed a patient, done anything even remotely clever, they would have assumed House had helped her. If she'd done something risky, the response would have been, "House must be rubbing off on you," and so on and so forth. In job interviews, she would either be cursed or blessed to be associated with House. But the end result would always be the same: his antics would overshadow and diminish her own accomplishments.

And honestly… she'd been relieved when he'd failed to call her the next day.

"So I was just a booty call," House said loudly, interrupting her thoughts.

It was impossible to miss the disappointment in his voice.

"You were… everything I could have ever wanted," she responded instantly. "But I wasn't ready for you then."

She placed a hand on his knee to soothe whatever sting the admission might have caused.

"And then I hired you, and _then_ it became 'I'm your boss, and you work for me.' Or 'you're not right for me.' I spent all the time trying to convince myself that someone else _better_ was out there."

At that moment, she considered mentioning some of the idiots she'd dated in the past. Ultimately though, she decided against it; she didn't need House fixating on _that_. So she simply said instead, "I tried so hard to find someone else, dated guys who were good on paper, guys who were bad on it, and it never worked out."

Cuddy let out a rush of air through her nose and paused. Looking at him, she could tell that he was listening to her; his eyes were trained on her, taking in every move she was making.

He knew he was being obvious in his intent; he was clearly trying to see if she was lying. The way he was watching her for even the slightest hint of a tell, he was being completely transparent. House realized that.

But he didn't care.

A desire for subtlety was nothing, meant nothing when compared to his need for an answer. If she realized what he was doing, fine; he just wanted to know if he could believe anything she was saying.

In truth, part of House understood he had no reason to doubt her. Lying in this case would be pointless. He knew she loved him, so if she lied at all, it would be about the circumstances in which they'd been brought together. And he was pretty sure that, instead of lying, she would have just found some other way to make her argument.

So he supposed she must have been telling the truth. It was the only thing that made sense, though it still felt odd listening to her say what he'd always wanted to hear.

That feeling of weirdness must have translated to the look on his face, because at that moment, Cuddy tugged on his pants leg to get his attention.

Immediately he forced himself to focus on the present. Losing himself in the analysis was much easier than idly allowing her words to wash over him, to comfort him. But he wasn't about to make her stop by letting her think he wasn't paying attention. So he made an overt showing of interest to get her continue.

Thankfully it worked.

"I didn't understand why those relationships never worked out," she explained in a careful voice.

"Probably had something to do with the fact that they would have liked you when you still had your penis," House quipped, unable to stop himself.

Cuddy fumed in response. "Much to your dismay, I've never been a man or dated one interested in them."

"Oh, I don't know…." He was talking in that way that Cuddy knew meant he was working up to an insult. "That marine –"

"_Anyway_," she interrupted quickly, seeing exactly where he was headed.

Sure, at this point, Cuddy was simply putting off the inevitable. As soon as she told him she was going to see John (and she would tell him), they would have this conversation. But frankly, considering the next time John's name was brought up would be much worse, she didn't want to have this discussion twice.

Technically, she didn't want to have it at _all_. But since avoiding it all together was impossible, she would settle for _once_.

And wanting to make that happen, she hurriedly started talking before he could get another quip out. "My _point_ is that none of those relationships worked out. And I know you have fun thinking that there's some seedy underlying cause to that, but there isn't," she told him firmly.

Her voice staccato and straight to the point, she then uttered the one truth he seemed incapable of seeing. "They just weren't you."

She felt her throat constrict as the words left her. She had never said that out loud before – not to Wilson, not even to herself. It had been the truth, of course, something she had known even if it had remained unspoken. But she hadn't ever said it before, and now that she had… she could feel the weight of her honesty press heavily on her heart.

Each beat of her pulse seemed to pound within her as the question (had she really said that?) flooded through her consciousness with as much ease as the blood flowed through her veins. House's non-reaction, his _silence,_ amplifying the contraction of muscle, she could hear every lub and dub her body unconsciously made.

The reason for her reaction was one she didn't understand entirely. She wasn't afraid of him knowing, wasn't afraid that he somehow felt differently; if he hadn't been completely in love with her, he would have run.

A long time ago.

But knowing that didn't make her feel any more sure in that moment. Because what it came down to, she guessed, was the palpable fear she had of feeling that way... towards anyone. She hadn't been lying by any measure: House was the only person right for her, the only person she could ever dream of being with. She knew this to be true with every fiber of her being.

And she supposed if she felt like passing out right now, it had little to do with _his_ reaction and _everything_ to do with her own shock that she could love anyone as completely and recklessly as she did him.

God, she did love him.

Every step of the way, she had tried to resist him, to tell herself that he was wrong for her. But he had somehow managed to weasel his way into her life. And though she was admitting as much to House now, what she would never be able to explain was how in the hell that had happened.

Then again, Cuddy supposed she didn't need to. He looked just as taken aback, just as moved by her admission. The emotions that threatened to make her heart burst were clearly reflected in his eyes, in the way he painfully swallowed.

And between that and his silence, she felt compelled to tell him, "When I came to you... when I broke up with Lucas... it wasn't spur of the moment." A laugh hitched in the back of her throat at the very idea. "I just... couldn't find a reason to say no anymore."

At that, she shrugged a little in discomfort. "I tried," she admitted. "You don't think I considered how screwed up you are? I did. Of course, I did. You think I didn't tell myself that you were bad for me, that you were bad for _Rachel_?"

He wouldn't answer the question, so she answered it for him. "I did. I _wanted _a reason to stay with Lucas... to have a relationship that I knew would be easy - for me _and_ my daughter."

She paused before saying quietly, "But I wanted you more, and I knew that... whatever our _issues_ were." She said that word with distinct disdain. "_We_ were worth an attempt. We _are_."

Cuddy hadn't expected him to speak up then. But for the first time in what seemed like forever, he did. His voice unsure and wavering, he replied, "I… want to believe that. But Rachel –"

"_Rachel _came to _you_. She wanted _you_," she pointed out, stressing the word, you, every time she came across it. "She _wants_ you."

His retort was immediate. "She wants a father."

She couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Rachel spends time with you every day. You've been in her life long enough that she doesn't remember a time where you _weren't_ in her day-to-day life. You think she doesn't have feelings for you?"

"I think she shouldn't," he admitted quietly.

The desire to cringe at his own words was strong. As honest as he was being, House still thought that he sounded pathetic – more so than he had at any point during this night. And considering how pitiful he'd been all evening long, he believed that that was saying something.

Cuddy didn't seem to mind though. If anything, she kept her demeanor relaxed, which House appreciated, because it made him feel like less of a jackass. And when she spoke matter of factly, when she responded seriously, he was only relieved that she was patient enough to deal with his insanity.

"What are you going to do?" she asked simply, a rhetorical question if he'd ever heard one. "Pretend like tonight didn't happen? If you're lucky, denial will get you to around lunchtime before you have to make a choice."

He nodded his head in agreement. Burying his head in the sand was fairly enticing, but it wouldn't get him very far. Not with a five year old whose default position was desperate-for-attention, anyway. "Yeah," he said slowly.

"You gonna fight her? Make her feel bad for caring about you?" Cuddy shook her head vehemently. "If you do that, then you really don't deserve –"

"And what am I supposed to do?" he interrupted fiercely. His lips mangled into a sneer, he asked, "Sign the adoption papers?"

In response she pressed her tongue to the side of her cheek. She knew he was trying to get a rise out of her, but honestly, it was his cluelessness that proved more agitating.

"_No_," she said with an annoyed sigh. "You…." She paused, knowing her tone wasn't the correct one. Irritation might have been the emotion she was feeling the most right now, but letting that show wasn't going to get her anywhere.

It certainly wasn't going to make him feel any better about this situation. And since that was why she was talking to him to begin with, she knew appearing aggravated would only be counterproductive.

So she calmly explained, "You be yourself. You stay… start to build a relationship with her." There was a beat before she corrected herself, "A _better_ relationship with her."

"You're right," House replied sarcastically. "It's so simple. Why didn't I –"

"It _is_ simple," she stressed in a pained voice. "It's just not _easy_."

"Memorizing the messages in your fortune cookies again?" He had a mocking frown on his face for a moment before he harshly added, "Tell me something I don't know."

"Fine." She was more than up for that challenge. "You came into this relationship _knowing_ I had a child," Cuddy pointed out. "I get that this is scary for you, but…." She squeezed his knee to offer him some comfort as she said, "You _knew_ Rachel was part of the equation. You knew that, if we didn't break up because of something else, we would be here. And I don't think you would have entered this relationship if you thought you would _never_ be able to bond with her."

She was right. He knew she was; he still had the memories of doing exactly what she'd just said. And if he didn't, there was no denying that measuring risks and gains in personal relationships _sounded_ like him.

In this case though, he didn't even need to consider what she was saying to know she was right. He _had_ thought of those things. He _had_ questioned whether or not he could pass the Rachel test.

At the time though, his answer had been tentative, a _maybe_. Cuddy hadn't been wrong to say that he had already thought of his Rachel readiness, but what she had failed to see was that he was selfish.

Blindly selfish.

Yes, he'd thought of all the potential issues. And then he'd thought of what life would be like if he didn't pursue a relationship with Cuddy, and he'd forced himself to believe he could handle whatever came his way.

He simply hadn't had the willpower to deny himself _her_.

But he couldn't admit that out loud.

And whether he felt this way out of embarrassment or fear for her reaction, he didn't know. All he knew was that Cuddy didn't need to know the truth. At least, she didn't need to know _that_ one. Unless she forced it out of him, he would keep that to himself.

What he _would_ share was a different sort of truth, a fear – something he hadn't been able to shake since the second they'd become a couple.

"I don't want to screw this up," he blurted out. The words leaving his mouth in a rush, he resisted the temptation to look away; he didn't want to see her face, didn't want to see her reaction, but casting his gaze anywhere else would simply make him look even more pathetic.

Which meant he was forced to watch Cuddy process his words. Her lips immediately turning down into a frown, her eyes instantly sympathetic, her response came within seconds. "I won't let you."

He wanted to believe her.

More than _anything_, he wanted to believe they were both capable of making all of _this_ work.

And yet… he couldn't stop himself from questioning whether or not it was actually possible. He wished he could; mentally he berated himself to _stop_ trying to foresee every way this could go wrong.

But his mind would not be – _could not be_ – stopped.

And try as he might not to, House could only picture how they would screw this up.

How _he_ would screw it up.

She seemed so confident about things now, but he knew that that would be temporary. She felt that way at the moment, but that feeling would disappear the second he said something truly awful to Rachel.

And he _would_ do that.

He wouldn't want to, but at some point, he would yell or insult or… do _something_ terrible, because he couldn't help himself. And then what? Cuddy would forgive him? He doubted it.

"Hey." Her voice was quiet, but, in the silence that had settled over them like a thin membrane, it seemed loud, the noise ripping him from his thoughts.

His eyes focusing on her once more, he was surprised to see that she'd moved closer to him. Her hands now grasping his, he felt his own fingers shake in her soft grip. He tried to write the motion off as a result of being cold, but he knew he wasn't shivering.

"You need to trust me," she implored.

"And what if I can't change?" He pulled his hands away from her. "What will you do then?"

Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "'Change'?" she repeated, her mouth contorting uncomfortably to get the word out. "I don't expect you to _change_." The doubt must have reached his face, because she quickly added, "I mean it."

"_Right_. The resemblance between Elmo and me is uncanny."

Cuddy didn't back down. "Rachel likes _you_," she reminded him. "She wouldn't want you to change. She just wants more of you and –"

"Which would be a change," he said, waving his hand as though to say, "Welcome to the rest of my thought process."

And she must have realized that he had a point, because she said vaguely, "If you want to think of it that way…."

"Is there another way?" The manner in which he said it didn't make it sound like a question.

"Redirecting your efforts," she replied smoothly. Scooting closer to him, she didn't stop moving until she was leaning over him once more. "I know that you're kind and loving and… amazing," Cuddy said with a sweet smile on her face. "Because you're that way with me. You just have to give some of that to Rachel."

"And that's it." Doubt laced each word.

Placing a reassuring hand on his chest, she said, "I know it won't be overnight. Who would want it to be? That would be…."

"Weird," he supplied.

"_Yes_." She nodded her head emphatically. "I'm not going to push you. _She's_ not going to push you. We'll just… ease into it."

What the "it" would end up being, House didn't know. But at this point, he figured that it was best not to think about it.

He wanted to – oh, he _wanted_ to. But he forced himself to resist giving into temptation, rationally understanding that doing so would illuminate absolutely _nothing_.

Had he suspected that answers existed just beyond his grasp, he would have explored every potential outcome ruthlessly. In this instance, however, he could see from the outset that there were just too many variables to consider.

He wished that wasn't the case. But when he couldn't eliminate any factors in his mental equation, he knew it was. It was simply too soon to deduce anything – what Cuddy hoped would be the end result here, what Rachel wanted, how any of them would react, etc.

Questions and doubts filled his mind, but House knew he was helpless at the moment to satisfy himself. So he supposed the best thing to do was distract himself.

"Fine," he muttered, his hand reaching for Cuddy. His fingers clasped around her wrist, he pulled her forward.

She didn't resist at all. He had figured she would, since enfolding her in his arms involved trapping a bottle of bourbon between their bodies and pushing her head towards the open window. But she didn't complain.

Actually, she smiled (he could feel it against his t-shirt) when he said, "If I'm doing this though, I'm probably going to need to see your boobs a lot more – for moral support and that sort of thing."

"Now?" she asked tiredly, her eyes closed.

Internally his answer to that was an emphatic no. His prowess (and hers as well) might have been impressive for someone half his age, but even he had his limits. Admitting that to her though wasn't high on his list of priorities. Instead, he evaded. "Sometime when you're conscious."

Cuddy made a noise that he guessed was supposed to be a form of okay. But then she asked, "Just my breasts?"

"Is that even a question?"

Her smile widened, but she said nothing. And for a brief moment, the silence that settled over them felt… comfortable, like it would have been if Rachel's bombshell hadn't happened.

But since the runt _had_ had her bad dream, the quiet that existed now quickly turned dark.

House wasn't sure what had made it change, what the catalyst was. All he knew was that one second things were okay, and then they felt awkward and weird the next.

Discomfort settling in all around them once more, he shifted on the window seat. Like that was going to help.

And though he tried to pass the movement off as something physical, Cuddy must have known what was really going on. Because at that moment, she opened her eyes and looked at him sympathetically. The emotion strong in her voice, she told him, "It will be all right."

"Yeah."

But he didn't believe that. He wanted to, but he didn't, not really anyway. And if he'd agreed with her at all, it had little to do with his beliefs and everything to do with one immutable truth:

He was a coward, too selfish and afraid to convince her of a fact she would come to understand in the end anyway.

_To be continued_


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Notes: Well, this chapter has taken much longer than expected to write. I apologize for the wait. I am pleased, however, to let you know that the next chapter is already written, so you won't have to wait long for that. Thanks to all my readers for being patient. Also thank you to lin12344, iamawallflower, EllieShelly, Temo, red blood, IHeartHouseCuddy, newsession, Sydney, Lucy, Josam, DoctorLisaCuddy, MissBates, dmarchl, TrudyGill23, Jane Q. Doe, ladyofnite, babygurl0506, HouseBroken, tanya, and jl1820 for taking the time to read and review. That means a lot.

**Warning: **This chapter contains anal sex/play. If that is something you know will bother you, please do not read this chapter.

_Disclaimer: The show belongs to David Shore and co. Clearly, that doesn't include me._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Thirteen: Time Precious Time**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

"Don't bother," he mumbled, his voice raspy with sleep, his words slurred together. To tell the truth, he wasn't entirely sure he'd spoken out loud or if he'd just imagined doing so; they'd collapsed into bed (her on top of him by his insistence) so late last night that House was half convinced that he'd simply hallucinated his part of the conversation.

But he must have said something aloud. Because as she rolled off of him, she countered in a voice just as deep and hazy, "Can't let it keep going off."

That wasn't exactly true though. He'd set it to turn itself off after ringing for more than a minute, but she wouldn't know that. The metallic beeping of the alarm was one he – not she – was most familiar with; although paying attention to the annoying tones was waking him up, he also understood that he recognized the sound.

It wasn't the alarm _she_ used to wake up or the noise that usually woke _him_ up in the morning. It wasn't even the _third_ alarm she always insisted on setting, for the rare if not impossible instance when she might sleep through and forget to give Rachel her medicine.

No, this kind of beeping was one he heard often. It was the get-your-ass-out-of-bed-unless-you-want-to-be-fired-House alarm. Since he usually heard this obnoxious tune at least twice a week, he felt that he was more than qualified to identify it – even in his current state of near slumber.

Not that that explained why the damn thing was going off on a _Sunday_, he conceded. But after a moment's worth of consideration, he surmised that two events must have occurred without his knowledge. One, Cuddy had to have turned the alarm clock on at some point; this he could easily believe had happened without him noticing as he had been fairly… _distracted_ last night.

Less believable was condition number two: they'd both slept through the first seven thousand wake up calls Cuddy had set. But that too seemed more understandable the more he thought about it.

Last night had completely exhausted them both. They'd already been tired, thanks to the all the sex they'd had, but Rachel's midnight visit had pushed them over the edge. And though he had never actually believed Cuddy's reassuring words, he was glad now that she'd misread him; had that conversation lasted any longer, they probably would have slept through every alarm she'd set.

As it was, House resented being awake now. He knew it was already late in the morning, but he would have liked nothing more than to go back to sleep. His head pounded – _not_ because he'd been drinking, though it did feel like a hangover, but because the daylight seemed particularly intrusive to someone who only wanted to sleep longer.

A quick glance at Cuddy told him that she felt the same way. Normally quick to get up, she looked like she barely had enough energy to slap the alarm clock off. And even after doing that, she still didn't get up. Instead she unceremoniously laid back down. Her back towards the edge of the bed, her body facing him, House could see her tired eyes rimmed red with sleepiness.

"Come here," he told her quietly, the request mimicking the one he'd made only hours ago.

After they'd unceremoniously agreed to return to bed, those two words had been the only things said between them. She'd been content to crawl onto her side of the bed and remain huddled in a little ball to ward herself against the cold.

He hadn't though.

Oh, he hadn't cared all that much about her being cold. Considering she'd tossed her wet towel on his part of the mattress, he'd found it fitting that she'd been freezing. But those peevish feelings hadn't compared to his need to be close to her.

And whether that had been due to the very real fear of losing her, he hadn't known.

Or cared.

He'd simply let himself give into his desire and reach for her.

Being pulled on top of him, she hadn't complained. She hadn't even asked what he'd been doing. She'd just accepted her spot on top of him as though she'd always slept there.

This time, however, she simply rested on her side next to him. "I have to get up," she offered lazily in explanation.

He reached for her. One of his hands cupping one of her butt cheeks, he said (in what he hoped was an enticing manner), "Five minutes."

She smiled tiredly but said, "I wish I could. But it's late, and Rachel –"

"Can wait."

"She needs to eat, get her medicine."

This was all true, House realized. If Rachel, by some miracle, were still sleeping, she would need to wake up soon and be fed and medicated; waiting too long between meals would lower her blood sugar, perhaps to dangerous levels. And supposing that Rachel had gotten up earlier and had, after failing to rouse anyone else, fed herself, he realized that that still wasn't a less dangerous scenario. In that case, she would need her medicine soon, depending on when she'd eaten.

But if she were awake, she wouldn't have stayed away quietly. She'd have climbed on top of Cuddy with as much grace and self-control as a hyperactive Golden Retriever, which meant Rachel must have still been asleep. And since that seemed to be the case, he didn't see why she couldn't wait a few more minutes to be woken up.

Yet when he said that – "She can wait a little bit" – Cuddy obviously didn't agree; the look of disapproval that she gave him attested to as much.

"You can't avoid her forever."

It was the last thing he'd expected her to say. If only because he hadn't thought about avoiding Rachel at all, he was surprised to hear Cuddy assume that he had.

His head shaking a little at the very idea, he said, "I wasn't –"

"It's okay," she interrupted consolingly. "No one in their right mind would expect things to be different in a day."

"I wasn't thinking about that." His reply was quick, perhaps too quick to be believable, but it was the truth. He hadn't been thinking about that at all. Admittedly that was probably because he didn't _want_ to consider any of that or how things with Rachel would turn out.

"So then you were thinking of…."

House knew he was being prompted here. How could he _not_ see that? She was hardly being smooth in her fishing expedition. But he found it hard to be peevish about the matter. Considering how much _she_ was willing to put up with, he figured he should return the favor – especially when she was only trying to gauge his mood.

And yet he found himself evading the implicit question altogether. "I was trying to figure out why you don't seem to own a pair of pants to sleep in."

As far as diversions went, this one was pretty lame. However, he'd been running his fingertips along the curve of her ass and up and down the backs of her legs, and since he'd casually noticed she was cool, it had been the first thing to pop into his mind.

Without truly considering the matter, he'd responded. And stupid though it was, his response _did_ have the intended effect of distracting Cuddy.

Her brow crinkled in confusion, she asked, "You want to talk about what I'm wearing?"

"Hardly" was his breezy reply. His fingers sneaking underneath the thin silky material of her shorts, he added, "Not complaining either."

She didn't seem all that convinced. Or maybe she _did_ believe that he was telling the truth, but he could tell that she felt compelled to respond. His remarks had obviously made her self-conscious.

Her cheeks pinker than normal, she explained, "I get warm in my sleep – especially with _you_ in my bed."

At that he shot her a look Cuddy could best describe as a peevish way of saying, "Well, you're not perfect either."

So she tried to put it more nicely. Things didn't need to be any more tense or problematic than they already had been this weekend. "I'm not complaining," she said in a matter of fact voice. "When I sleep, I'm sensitive to heat. When _you_ sleep, you get very warm. Wearing pants would make me hot. Wearing less…" she drawled the words out slowly and scooted closer to him on the bed. "Means I can be closer to you."

No doubt, she thought, he would counter her oversimplified summation with at least five examples of when that had not happened. Even though she doubted he cared much about the subject, if there were exceptions, he would probably feel compelled to mention them. He couldn't help himself.

Which meant she would need to change the subject quickly if she wanted to avoid listening to him talk.

"Means you can grab my ass without any –"

He snorted loudly in interruption. "Without any what? Effort?" His warm fingers splayed widely along the curve of her ass, though he didn't squeeze. "Cause I don't think there's much _effort_ involved."

"So I've noticed."

She could feel his hand shift suddenly and awkwardly underneath the cotton of her shorts, making it hard for her to pay attention to what he was saying. "You could wear a suit of armor and chastity belt, and I'd still find a way. Seriously."

"I know," she said in a breathy voice. She hadn't meant for the sentence to practically sound like a hiss, but it had been at that moment that his fingers had skirted around her thighs and gone straight for her clitoris.

Given the way they were laying, he missed, of course, though she was sure that that had been intentional. House didn't _miss_. But at the moment, her legs were pressed together as she lie on her side, and across from her, he had to hold his hand parallel to her mount to touch her. And the result was that it wasn't easy to wedge fingers between her lips.

That hardly mattered though.

She'd been interested the second he'd put his hand on her ass. The warm weight of his palm had thrilled her; the way his fingers, trapped in her shorts, had squirmed along her body had accentuated the feeling and the intimacy shared by the act.

No, he didn't need to be anywhere near perfect with his aim to turn her on. As it was, he'd already managed to sneak a finger perfectly between her thighs. And granted, it wasn't touching anywhere that she would react to specifically, but the fact that he was touching her _at all_ made her body long for him.

"You're persistent," she added after some time. Given what he was doing, it was hard to coat her words with the annoyance she occasionally felt when it came to his determination. But she did her best. Because, although she wasn't irritated now, she was sure, in the future, she'd regret wasting the opportunity to say something.

However, it was clear by looking at House's pleased face that the opportunity had already been lost. She didn't need to think very hard about why that was, the answer obvious; she just hadn't been peeved enough to sound convincing, and in response, he had taken the remark to be a compliment.

Or no, she decided after gazing at him for a few more seconds. He _knew_ she was going for an insult – just as he felt she had failed. And he was amused by both of those conditions.

Stilling the hand in her shorts, he offered, "I can stop if you want."

She glared at him.

"No?" He was asking in an earnest tone that he knew would annoy her. "But I thought you had to wake up Rachel."

She replied in a falsely bright voice that matched his, "I did. I _do_. And then _you_ decided to get frisky –"

"'Frisky'?" he repeated mockingly.

She rolled her eyes before pointedly glancing down the length of her body. "Look where your hand is."

Thanks to the covers, it was impossible to actually see. But House wasn't concerned either way. "So you want me to stop."

Oh, he _knew_ that was exactly what she _didn't_ want. He'd barely done anything, but he understood that it had been more than enough to ensure he'd spend his morning buttering her muffin.

Again, he recognized that he hadn't done much of anything to turn her on. In fact, he doubted if she was aroused much at all. But one thing he did know about Cuddy, one thing he knew for certain, was that she hated leaving things unfinished.

She hadn't always been that way, but over the years, her hand in hospital bureaucracy had agitated and accentuated her anal-retentive tendencies.

He supposed he couldn't complain, considering it was her careful eye and overall attentiveness that kept his office afloat; once Cameron had quit (for good), he'd found it impossible to convince another team member to take care of his paperwork. Without Cuddy, he'd have been forced to it himself, so he guessed he should have been _grateful_ for her fondness for tying loose ends. Especially since he was using that personality trait to get laid, yeah, he supposed he could tolerate her desire for perfection.

Then again, they would have sex either way. Whether he used her anal-retentiveness to his advantage or not, they would have sex. She could blame it on their unwritten agreement or him for making a move before she'd had a chance to reject him just as he could blame her hatred for unfinished business. But at the end of the day, they simply enjoyed sex. And no matter the circumstances, they would have had it today – in the same way they indulged most days.

So what did it really matter if he was baiting Cuddy into sex _now_?

Well, okay, it _was_ pissing her off. Her teeth clenched, she practically snarled, "You started this. You can finish it."

"But Rachel –"

"Will be better served if _I'm_ not serving a life sentence for murdering you," she hissed.

He scoffed at the idea. "You're not going to kill me for withholding sex."

"No." She nodded her head in agreement after a moment's pause. "But I'm also not going to spend my morning juggling Rachel's needs and yours. So if you want to have sex, we're having it now."

In the strictest sense of their undocumented contract, she'd just broken the rules. He was the one who was supposed to decide when they had sex; it was actually the _only_ thing under his province, everything else they did this weekend up to her. But House wasn't even remotely tempted to point that out.

Rachel was, for better or worse, the one thing that trumped any compromise he might have had with Cuddy. And because of that, he knew there was no point in arguing. She wouldn't listen to him, and it didn't matter anyway; he was the one who had wanted her to stay in bed to begin with, so he figured he might as well go along with what she was saying.

"Fine," he replied immediately. "How much time do I get?"

The question was a reasonable one. If the point was to avoid starting something they couldn't finish, Cuddy knew she needed to consider how much longer she was willing to wait before waking Rachel.

Without even glancing at a clock, Cuddy decided it could wait fifteen, _maybe_ twenty minutes. Which was more than enough time for sex, but….

She groaned loudly in a way that had nothing to do with House's hand.

"That long, huh," he muttered in disapproval.

"Twenty minutes if we're lucky."

Even if she had wanted to, there was no hiding the disappointment in her words or her voice. There was certainly no way _House_ had missed it, but then again, she didn't exactly care if he knew. If anything, she thought that maybe he had a right to know.

"That's enough time," House said simply, confidently.

And Cuddy knew that it was. Even if it only ended up being fifteen minutes, they would have enough time. But having to stop in the middle of something wasn't what she feared happening.

Nor did she worry all that much about Rachel walking in on them. That had happened yesterday, and as they'd all walked away relatively unscathed, Cuddy was no longer frightened by that prospect. What were the chances of that occurring two days in a row anyway? Pretty slim, she figured, even if you took into consideration that they had sex more frequently than most couples.

So when House offered, "We can lock the door. I doubt she's going to walk in after yesterday," she didn't disagree.

She just said, "I'm not worried about that."

Though she expected him to push her for an explanation, he didn't. Perhaps he sensed that she was going to elaborate and realized that being quiet would serve him better. Whatever the reason, she supposed it didn't matter; he was being considerate and patient, two qualities she appreciated at that moment, and that was really all that concerned her then.

At least, it made it easier to say, "I know we can be quick. It's just…." She shook her head a little and scooted to be closer to him. "It would be nice if we didn't have to be."

Once more his hand moved to her ass. But this time, he wasn't trying to cop a feel or turn her on; he was just, in his own screwed up way, trying to be reassuring, supportive.

"It just seems like we haven't had any time to ourselves," she muttered quietly.

"Yeah," he agreed, her head lightly bumping into his chin as they snuggled closer.

"Between work and Rachel and –"

"_Yeah_," he repeated. But this time his voice was harsher, more sarcastic than it had been. "All that time lost when we could have been having sex…. What _were_ you thinking adopting the pound puppy?"

She knew he was joking; if he actually believed that, he would never say those words aloud. He certainly wouldn't say it when sex was on the line. And while that wasn't to say she _wasn't_ offended on some level, she understood that he didn't mean to be insensitive.

Of _course_, she would prefer that he never say those things, not even jokingly. Had anyone else asked her that question, no matter the context, she would have wanted to kill them. And that instinctual feeling didn't go away just because she loved him.

_But_ House _was_ the kind of person who was so unusual that he needed to be judged by a completely different code of conduct. Any other human being saying those things would have been trying to insult her and her daughter. House wasn't.

Teasing her, he wasn't making any attempt to hurt her. Which was why she had no intention of calling attention to his behavior now, even if some part of her was hurt by it. Especially considering what had happened last night, at this moment, what he needed was someone to support him, to put him at ease.

"Oh, I don't know," she said good-naturedly, though she was just as sarcastic as he had been. "I guess the whole wanting to be a mother thing was kind of short sighted."

The stubble along his chin scratched her forehead lightly as he pulled back in mock surprise. "You wanted to be a mother?" He blinked. "I always just assumed you got really drunk and thought Rachel was a turkey sandwich."

She snorted loudly at the comment, and he smiled widely. His teeth bright, he asked, "That didn't make any sense, did it?"

"Not at all."

But she kissed him anyway.

His mouth opened to hers instantly, and he tasted of liquor gone sour and stale cigarette smoke. What _she_ tasted like, she didn't want to know, and he was unusually kind enough not to tell her. But then, maybe that shouldn't have been so surprising. If she could overlook his slightly chapped lips and hair oiled with alcohol-induced sweat, then certainly he could pretend that she was fine the way she was as well.

It truly was the least he could do.

And yet Cuddy didn't believe he was doing any of this out of reciprocity. An outsider would no doubt think such a thing, but she knew him well enough to know that being kind in order to receive kindness in return was rarely his modus operandi. So if he was being nice now, _polite_ even, it just meant that what he wanted coincidentally lined up with what any decent human being would do

But she didn't get a chance to consider the reason for his actions much. She wanted to, but before she could, House pulled away from her. His gaze on the verge of being critical, he told her, "Making out with you is a lot less fun when you're not paying attention."

Though she didn't feel guilty, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment of their own volition. And knowing that he wouldn't miss such a tell, she felt compelled to say, though she didn't really mean it, "Sorry."

"For someone complaining about the lack of time we have to ourselves –"

"I know," she muttered bitterly. If she hadn't felt guilty before, she _really_ didn't now – not when he was throwing her words back in her face.

"I'm just saying –"

"Shut up, House."

"Oh yeah," he said dryly, reaching for her with his free hand. His fingers brushing a tangled strand of hair away from her forehead, he murmured, "Keep sweet talking me, baby."

She sighed then. He hadn't done anything wrong, but she'd been acting peevish nonetheless. There was no denying it.

"This is what I'm talking about," she said quietly. "We barely have any time alone, and when we do, we're snapping at one another."

He continued to card through her hair as he pointed out, "That's not new."

"You know what I mean." But before he had a chance to respond, Cuddy seemed to change her mind about that. "Or maybe you don't. I just feel like –"

"We're fine," he told her firmly.

She remained unconvinced. "You really believe that?" she asked doubtfully.

House didn't answer right away. As much as he wanted to summarily dismiss her point, he knew he couldn't. She wouldn't believe him if he spoke at that instant, but more than that, he actually wanted the chance to mull the question over in his mind.

Were they really okay? She certainly seemed to believe they weren't. Last night she'd been telling him over and over that they would be okay, but in the hours they'd been sleeping, she'd clearly changed her mind. And since he'd been relying on her certainty to bolster his own, he couldn't help but pause and wonder:

What had made her change her mind?

He asked her. "Last night… you made it seem like –"

"I don't mean _that_," she interrupted quickly.

He blinked. "Then what the hell are you talking about?"

At that she smiled a little. Apparently, his confusion was amusing.

"This has nothing to do with Rachel or…." She paused and sighed once more. But when she spoke once more, she didn't bother to finish her previous thought. "I still believe – _completely_ – that you are absolutely what she needs, that you _can_ be." She looked at him pointedly. "Don't get the two things confused. I'm not talking about that."

He rolled his eyes in irritation. "Then _again_, what –"

"I mean _this_," she said, gesturing between them. But thinking that that too might give him the wrong impression, Cuddy explained, "And, just so we're clear, I'm not upset with you. I just wish we could spend more time together."

"So…." His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "I didn't… do something to make you –"

"Change my mind?" she offered, the very idea making the question a sad one.

"Yes."

"Of course not." She tried to sound as honest as she could. "You haven't done anything wrong."

She didn't say any more until he nodded his head in understanding. And then, only then, did she allow herself the privilege of joking, "Unless you count wasting the past five minutes on questions when we could have, in fact, been having sex."

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't think that's my fault entirely."

"Well, you're wrong," she said casually, the mood lightening – thankfully.

House offered her a smile before pulling her close to him. "Then I guess I have to make it up to you."

"That would be a reasonable conclusion, yes."

He pretended (at least she assumed so) to hesitate, acted as though he wasn't sure he wanted to atone for his mistake. "If I must…."

Perhaps sensing how irritated she would be if he kept this up, he stopped. As though he'd suddenly capitulated, he no longer pretended to resist what he very clearly wanted.

His mouth instantly covered hers, his lips pressing against hers firmly. It had been only mere minutes since they had last found themselves like this, but she greedily welcomed the contact anyway. And though part of her was tempted to ask how he could ever think that she'd changed her mind about their relationship, she didn't. Bringing that up now would only further shatter the peace they were both trying to find in this moment.

Of lesser consideration was the fact that it would make her seem petulant and petty. But that too amounted to the same concern in the end: it would ruin the mood. So she forced herself to ignore the snotty question in her mind and focus on House. And frankly, that wasn't hard to do – not when he continued to kiss her with such sweetness, not when he was doing all he could to pull her further into this little bit of peace before the day truly began.

His fingers gripped her hipbone with bruising intensity as he tried to bring her closer to him. She went to him easily, just as desperate as he seemed to be in her need to touch him.

Her breasts against his chest, she could hear the noise of approval that he made. It caught in the back of his throat, but the sound seemed to carry over their breathing anyway. And that made her smile against his parted mouth.

Sometimes it was easy to believe that she was the only one in the relationship who was so affected by his mere presence. As demonstrative as House had always been about his feelings for her, there were times where her love for him was so… consuming that it seemed impossible for him to reciprocate. But here was, at least in some small part, proof that he was equally helpless to resist the magnetic pull between them.

After all, they were just kissing, just as clothed as they'd been five minutes ago. Yet that was enough to arouse him. Which might not have seemed that impressive, but to Cuddy, it sort of was when you considered the fact that she'd first kissed him nearly thirty years ago. And it _definitely_ was when you factored in how much sex they'd had in the last day or so.

But apparently those things meant nothing to either of them, she thought as his fingers snuck into her shorts once more. The years they'd spent together and the amount of sex they'd had during them seemed completely irrelevant to her at that moment, and why she'd ever expected any differently from him… she didn't know. The whole idea seemed idiotic now, when she was being reminded of just how good they were together in bed.

Then again, thinking about _anything_ other than the way his thumb was teasing her opening seemed incredibly pointless. So she simply forced herself _not_ to consider anything other than precisely what he was doing.

And that wasn't hard.

The pad of his thumb ran along the outside of her pussy. The digit circling her hole, he didn't dare enter her; a promise of things to come though, he didn't exactly need to. Which wasn't to say that she_ appreciated_ being teased, because she obviously would have preferred to have his fingers inside of her. But this had its appeal as well.

His thumb moved in oblong circles, the path made harder by the fact that her thighs were pressed together. But as he lazily spread her juices along her body, every now and then, he would come very close to pushing the tip of his finger inside of her. And when that would happen, when he was so near that penetration seemed unavoidable, Cuddy would feel her internal muscles clench in anticipation.

Her stomach became laden with heavy desire, her vagina tightening hotly at the very thought of what he might do next.

She knew there was no way he could miss her tensing, no way he could fail to understand what it meant. But, clutching at his bare forearms (he'd taken his smoke-scented t-shirt off before they'd fallen asleep last night), she also knew that she didn't care.

What did it matter anyway for him to know just how badly she wanted him? Why should she, she asked herself, bother trying to hide this from him?

He would know the truth anyway. And when it seemed like she had to keep so much from him – her meeting with John, most specifically – to be honest, she welcomed this moment in time where she could keep nothing from her boyfriend. So much so that, when House abruptly shifted his hand and stroked her clit, she didn't bother to stifle her reaction.

Breaking their kiss, she leaned her head back away from him. Panting, she cried out her approval. "Oh!"

The noise was loud, loud enough that it would have given her pause under normal circumstances, loud enough that, if she were in her right mind, she would have worried about waking Rachel. As it was though, Rachel was the _last_ thing Cuddy was thinking about.

Thankfully House didn't seem to be any different. Because rather than admonish her for her lack of control, he said nothing at all. He'd heard her (it would have been impossible for him not to), but he didn't care. He just began to press wet kisses into the length of her neck.

She swallowed hard, one of her hands burying encouragingly into his hair. But she suspected he didn't need the extra incentive. He was careful to avoid the agitated skin he'd broken open the previous night, but he was so eager regardless she barely noticed it. His mouth roaming from her jaw to her clavicle to her shoulder and back up, he let his lips touch and his tongue glide over every inch of skin he could.

His breath was hot against her skin. And when he finally pushed a finger inside of her wet opening, she felt like the heat within her body had ignited her into a full blaze.

Twisting into his body, Cuddy pressed her face into his shoulder. His skin was damp with sweat and already flushed pink as though he had a sunburn. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth as she panted for air; the desire to lick his heated flesh was strong and one she ultimately couldn't resist.

Her tongue ran along the upper ridge of his shoulder, and she vaguely thought that he seemed vaguely salty against her taste buds.

But she didn't have a chance to think about the matter much, because he chose that moment to slip another finger inside of her.

Her thighs clenched his hand tightly, and he felt like laughing at her immediate response. She was trying to keep him there, to trap him into fingering her until she came. But honestly he thought that was kind of stupid. Doing that made sense in a way, but at the same time, her actions were making it harder for him to bury himself knuckle deep in her sweet, tight, hungry pussy.

He did his best though.

Thrusting his fingers back and forth, he tried his hardest to coax her closer to orgasm. And he could tell immediately that his actions were having their intended effect. Her face was buried into his shoulder, but he _knew_.

He could feel her breath along his skin, could hear the way air seemed to hitch in the back of her throat with each inhale and exhale. He could see the way her nipples, stiffened with desire, poked at the thin material of her tank top. And when he craned his head to press a gentle kiss to the pale swell of one of her breasts, he swore he could hear her heartbeat even though he was sure that wasn't even physically possible.

But even without all of that, he knew just how much she was enjoying this. The way her hips had begun to rock against the heel of his hand was proof alone.

As he pumped into her, her wetness coated his fingers liberally. Without exaggeration, he could feel it seeping into all the crevices in the skin that surrounded his knuckles.

In the back of his mind, he debated whether or not it would be worth trying to taste her. Without a doubt, he definitely wanted to. To find himself buried face first in between her soft thighs, to be tongue deep in her and nestled between her slick lips when she came… yeah, he _definitely_ wanted that.

Nevertheless, he hesitated – not because he thought she would tell him no (she wouldn't), but because he selfishly wanted to get _himself_ a little more action.

As though she intuited that thought, at that moment, Cuddy slid her hand into the waistband of his pajama pants.

He was warm to the touch, she thought, as her fingers brushed against his length. The light thatch of coarse hair tickled the palm of her hand, and she smiled as her fingers curled around the base of his straining erection.

He grunted before saying hoarsely, "That's perfect. Good girl." She pumped him a few times, relishing the way he felt beneath her. But she didn't get a chance to do much more before he suddenly pulled his fingers out of her.

"What are you –"

He abruptly cut her off by pushing her hand away from his cock.

"The door," he told her immediately before she could finish her question.

But she didn't understand. "What?"

He replied shortly, "The _door_. Don't you think we should, I don't know, _lock_ it?"

Cuddy nodded her head dimly.

Yes, that sounded about right. True, she didn't believe that Rachel would walk in. Again, what were the chances of that happening two days in a row? Very slim, Cuddy thought. But at the same time, she wasn't going to risk it. If avoiding that humiliation again was as simple as locking a door, she absolutely was going to do it.

"Right."

But he made no move to get up.

Well, of course, he wouldn't, she thought bitterly.

"Fine. I'll do it," she told him as she pushed the sheets off of her body.

"I would," he said in a way that made it absolutely clear that he was lying. "But my leg and all…."

Scrambling out of the bed, she rolled her eyes. "I'm sure."

"Come on. A guy with a limp _and_ an erection… that's just pathetic." After a moment, when she was locking the door, he added, "Besides, by the time I got over there and back, we would have wasted so much time. Rachel would probably have woken up, and we'd be hard up, and who wins then?"

She turned around to head back to him and was met with the sight of his naked body lounging on the bed. Apparently, he'd taken the time to strip while she'd been locking the door.

It was a welcome sight, of course. His erection jutting proudly in the air, his arms folded underneath his head – he looked equal parts amazing _and_ arrogant.

Smirking, she commented, "Looks like it didn't take you very long to take off your pants."

"I was motivated."

Not even at face value did that make any sense. If he were so motivated, why hadn't he taken the initiative to get up and lock the door himself? Well, of course, it didn't make much sense; House was unusually smart under normal circumstances, but he wanted sex right now, which meant his reasoning abilities and I.Q. were about a fourth of what they should have been.

As if to prove that point, he asked her, "Like what you see?"

"Lucky for you that the answer to that is a resounding _yes_," she replied harshly. But even through her irritation, there was no attempt at hiding her very obvious attraction to him. Her eyes fixated on his dick, her thighs clenched together with desire, yeah, there was no point in trying to pretend that she didn't find him incredibly attractive. Because at that point, even if she'd wanted to hide it, he would have known better.

Indeed, he saw where her gaze was cast, saw how she licked her lips. She wanted him – _badly_. And who was he to deny his lady love what she wanted? "Ask Daddy nicely, and he'll give you a ride," he told her, his tone as lascivious as he could make it.

But that just made her grit her teeth. "_Very_ lucky."

He shrugged. He would never deny that being with her made him consider himself an incredibly lucky man. He'd never expected her to want him; certainly, what had the chances been of her wanting him as much as he had her? But she had – _did_ – and he'd become accustomed to that as being just another part of his life. Yet, he never thought himself as anything other than fortunate in this regard.

House knew that he was.

So he didn't bother to fight what she was saying. She was right, and even if she weren't, in the end, what good would fighting do him now?

None at all, he knew. Because disagreeing with her would inevitably lead to them wasting time squabbling over the matter, and then they'd have sex, but it would be quick and hasty and not very friendly. And any sex was better than _no_ sex, admittedly, but it wouldn't be the same, so he ignored her words and instead said, "Take off your clothes."

Part of him expected her to resist, though he couldn't explain why. But she didn't. Doing precisely what he wanted, she unceremoniously dropped the flimsy shorts she'd been wearing and yanked off her top.

"Better?" she asked.

His mouth was too dry to allow him to speak. His gaze roving over her entire form, he didn't even know where to start. Unlike him, Cuddy didn't have a body with only a few nice places. Clothed or not, from head to toe, her form was absolutely…

_Perfect_.

He would admit that he was biased, but at the same time, he would challenge any straight man, lesbian, or bisexual to find fault with the woman before him. If there were any flaws, he didn't see them. All he saw was pristinely pale flesh pulled taut over the most delectable curves he'd ever witnessed; perfectly sized breasts he could easily cup, pinch, _fuck_; nicely curved hips and a flat stomach that was muscular but not in a freakish sort of way (unlike the ones on Wilson's last girlfriend). What wasn't there to like?

No doubt, she would have plenty of answers for that question – especially right now. Vaguely, he could tell that her hair was a little matted from sleeping and that her stomach had an odd imprint on it from the lace on her tank top. But none of that actually mattered to _him_, so he was honest when he answered their question with one of his own. "Do I really need to say?"

She grinned. "Good."

As she stalked towards him, he asked her curiously, "You expected me to say otherwise?"

Crawling back on the bed, her breasts swaying back and forth, she didn't say. And at that point, he didn't really care, because he was too interested in her boobs.

Unfolding one of his arms, he reached over to cop a feel. Not surprisingly she let him. His thumb running over her nipple, House told her appreciatively, "You've got the best tits."

Her response was to push her chest further into his grasp. At first, he assumed she was doing this, because she liked what he was doing.

But then she started leaning over him, as though she were trying to grab something off of the night stand, and he realized that her actions had nothing to do with him.

To be honest, he would have been annoyed if not for the fact that either way, regardless of her actions, he was cupping one of her breasts in his hand.

And when she grabbed what she wanted and sat back, he _definitely_ couldn't be irritated. Because what she had in her hands was the bottle of lube he'd tossed there the night before.

Still, he couldn't help but ask, "You really need that? You seem wet enough to me."

She smirked at the question, and his stomach leapt with excitement at the implication of her behavior. "Not for what I have in mind," she practically purred.

"Oh really?"

Given that they had a time limit, he'd just assumed that anal was off the table. Which he guessed was stupid, because he knew that it wouldn't take any longer for either of them to come in that position. If anything, history had demonstrated that the opposite was true, so it seemed in his estimation shortsighted to assume that anal hadn't been on the menu.

Perhaps sensing his surprise, Cuddy glanced briefly at his erection. "I assume you're _up_ for it."

"For the record, that's _always_ the correct assumption." Letting go of her breast, he reached for the lubricant. But she didn't give it to him. "The day I tell you no is the day you need to check me over for a brain aneurysm."

"All right." He gestured once more for her to give him the plastic bottle, but she shook her head firmly. "I'll do it. I know how you don't like to get your hands dirty."

"When it comes to your ass, I'm more than willing to do what it takes."

He meant it as a joke, but it was hard to be funny given the circumstances. But watching her squirt some of the lubricant in her hand, he decided he didn't really care about his lack of comedic talent.

"It's okay. I know you'd rather watch."

And _that_ he couldn't argue with.

Nodding his head shakily, he murmured, "Okay."

From there, she took control. First slicking his erection, it definitely wasn't how he would have done it; he would have prepped her first and then himself. But given the fact that she gave him a few encouraging strokes _and_ that _she _was going to be the one taking it in the ass, he figured it would be in poor form to complain.

Which wasn't to say he _wasn't_ tempted. Because he was – at least he when she let go of his dick and turned away from him. But that was only because he didn't understand what she was doing at first.

And then she straddled him.

She was still facing away from him, as she hovered above his stomach. But he understood she was doing precisely what she thought he wanted: to watch.

The bottle of lubricant hissed a little as she squeezed more of the liquid onto her fingertips. But before she reached around to prepare her body for him, she asked, "Are you paying attention?"

The answer he gave her was a plaintive whine, which made her smile.

"Just checking," she teased, shifting her knees on the bed, so that she could spread her legs further apart.

It was clear, however, that he wasn't amused by the question or the way she seemed to be taking her time. "Hurry up," he said childishly.

"Shhh," she replied quietly, gingerly pushing her index finger into her own body. It didn't hurt, not by any means. But given the way she was currently positioned, it wasn't all that comfortable, and she had to rest her free hand on one of House's knees to balance herself. "It won't take long."

And it wouldn't. She was experienced enough to know how to relax her muscles, to know when her body could accept more. This wasn't her first time, and it wouldn't be her last, which was why she recognized that, if she paid any attention to House's insistence, it would take longer.

"But if you push me…" she started to say, the threat remaining unsaid.

"You're right," he said almost immediately, one of his warm hands patting her ass gently.

It was enough of a reassurance, enough of a relaxing motion that she was able to slip her index finger past her sphincter.

"Hmm," House hummed in approval.

She obviously couldn't see what she was doing, but she could imagine just how much he enjoyed the sight of her hand splayed across her ass as she fingered herself. Even if she couldn't though, he was happy to tell her. "That's perfect… so hot."

Closing her eyes, she slowly began to move her finger. Which House _loudly_ approved of with a groan. And though part of her knew she should tell him to keep it down, the majority of her being welcomed all of the sounds and gestures he was making. It was too encouraging, too much of a distraction for her to tell him to be quiet.

As she began the less than comfortable task of inserting another finger, he rubbed her lower back. "You're doing great."

The oddness of the comment was lost on her. Under any other circumstance, she would have found it incredibly strange. But at that particular moment, all she could think of was that she didn't think she was doing great – not when she had to stop and pour more lube onto her fingers. Granted, she knew it was an inevitability, understood that it was simply part of what she _had_ to do in order to have sex with him. But in any case, she hated having to stop. _Not_ because it interrupted the show she was putting on for him (though House did give a small sniff in protest), she thought. She didn't _like_ that her behavior had that effect, but more than anything, she didn't want to stop, because it was at that moment that she was beginning to enjoy what she was doing.

The discomfort she'd felt had melted away, the sting of her own intrusion softening into a slow burn of pleasure. And she hadn't wanted to pause, because the desire to keep going was strong. But there was no avoiding it.

And in the end, once she'd reapplied the lube to herself, she could see that the wait was worth it. As House voiced his approval, she pressed the slick pads of her fingertips against her asshole, and unlike before, this time, her fingers slipped inside of her body with relative ease.

She gave herself a few tentative thrusts, just to see if she was ready. The surprising thing about that though was that she _was_. More so than she thought actually, because the second she felt her fingers moving inside of her, she gasped in pleasure. All of her muscles clenched together in an attempt to stop herself from withdrawing, and none of this went unnoticed by House.

"You like that?" he asked in a low voice. She started to nod her head, but he didn't want _that_, apparently. "No," he told her gruffly. "You _say_ it."

"Yes." The word was pinched by her sudden intake in air.

"Good," he responded. Not for a second though did she believe he was saying that for any reason other than for the fact that he approved of her ability to follow his instructions. "You know how much better it's going to feel when _I'm_ the one inside you?"

Cuddy couldn't answer the question. She knew she should, knew that he would wait impatiently for her response. But physically, she couldn't do it.

The very _idea_ of what he was saying completely incapacitated her with desire. She fumbled with her fingers inside of her. Her clit throbbed in long pulses, and she whimpered when he kept talking.

"Of course you do," he said knowingly, his hand rubbing along the curve of her ass. "I'm betting it's all you can think about right now – the way it's going to feel to have me in your tight little asshole." He noticed her fingers begin to move faster, and he smiled. "That's it. That's my girl. Get yourself all nice and ready for me. I want you nice and open. You understand?" he asked patronizingly.

This time she replied with another "Yes" cried out.

"Good. Because as soon as I get my dick into you, I'm not letting you go until I've come inside you. I don't care how many times you come or how much it hurts."

When it came to the latter, he realized that that wasn't true at all; if it hurt her, he would absolutely stop. But knowing his girlfriend as well as he did, he knew that she would get off on hearing differently. "You can cry all you want, but I'll force you to stay right where you are, with my _big_, hard cock in your ass until I've given you exactly what you –"

"Oh God _now_," she interrupted loudly. She was shaking as she said the words, her entire body wracked with desire, even as she pulled her fingers out.

But he pretended not to notice what she meant. "You mean you're ready?" Like that was even a question right now.

It wasn't, which was why it wasn't all that surprising that her answer to that useless query was for her to sit up on her knees. She scooted down on the bed, so she could line herself up. One of her hands reaching behind her, she grabbed his erection. And this time, he was the one to whimper. How could he not though? Here he was with the woman he loved, about to have sex with her... Why shouldn't he be allowed to make noise?

In the end though, it didn't matter. If there were some invisible rule about being stoic during sex, he violated it multiple times over. But again, how could he not? She had her hand curled around his dick, holding it steady as she slowly – _so_ slowly – sank down on top of it.

Her tiny little asshole stretching over the head of his cock, he watched as his member slowly slid into her tight heat. And there was no stifling his admiration for her in that moment. "Oh, that's good, so good, yeah. Keep going."

She did. Thank _God_, she did. Letting go of his dick, she used his knees to balance her body and forced herself down onto the rest of his cock. Pushing him into her with one slow, long downward stroke, she didn't stop until her ass was pressed against his thighs and he was fully sheathed by her beautiful body.

And when that happened, she told him, "Feels amazing…." She tilted her head back, dark curls tickling the space between her shoulder blades, and panted. "Just need a minute though…."

Part of him welcomed the pause. Feeling her muscles clench him tightly, after having watched her take all of his penis in her ass, he was completely on edge himself. Hell, he was _past_ the edge – _way_ past, because he was so ready to come right then and there.

Every cell of his body cried out for release. But he knew that if he did, knew that if he gave into his desire to thrust into her, it would be over immediately. And pride aside, he didn't want to leave her wanting, not when she was giving him everything he could possibly wish for.

Still, he couldn't stop himself from offering, "Want me to take over?"

He could feel her resulting laugh all the way in his balls.

"So impatient," she said in a singsong voice.

Scoffing, House replied through gritted teeth, "You would be too if you knew what this felt like."

She didn't doubt that was true. From her point of view, she hadn't even moved, but it was already pretty mind blowing. And she didn't think that it would be any different for him.

"Just relax," she told him calmly.

He bristled underneath her in response. Clearly, he wanted her to move... and they weren't so different in that regard either. She wanted to rock back and forth, up and down on top of him until they both came too. But she wasn't going to rush it, even if part of her body was screaming at her to.

Patting his knee with one of her hands instead, she explained, "You think I don't want this?"

"Of course not," he replied with what she thought was a touch of sincerity.

"Good. Because I want this just as much as you do."

He echoed her words. "Good."

"_But_..." she said slowly, hoping her voice would tear his attention from the way their bodies melded together hot and heavy.

"But?" he asked eventually.

It was her turn to pause then. She wanted to make him understand, which she suspected would be difficult; under any other circumstances, would it really be all that difficult for him to understand that they needed to take things slowly? She doubted it. But his inability to reason and/or remember all of those hours he'd spent in the clinic removing all sorts of bizarre objects from people's rectums was obvious to her now – as was the cause for that behavior. Simply put, it was hard to take things slowly (or to want to anyway) when he was testicle deep in her ass.

Again, she could understand that. If he was eager, she was just as interested in moving things forward. He'd been right to say that she couldn't possibly understand what it felt like for him; she would never know how wonderful it felt from his position. But then the same could be said about the reverse: he would never comprehend how amazing it was for her to force her own body into accepting him in her ass. He would never know what it was like for her to have her entire body clenched around him, full of him. He would never get that, out of the two of them, she was the one who probably benefited more from this (and she certainly wasn't going to tell him).

But what she would force him to see, what she needed him to see was that speed – at least in the very beginning – would only take away from the experience. How she would convince him of that though...

She wasn't entirely sure at first. And then, abruptly realizing that it would be quite easy to maintain his attention, she told him in a husky voice, "Nothing. It's just that my asshole is so tight..." She clenched her muscles to prove her point (and smiled when he groaned helplessly). "And you're _so_ big that –"

"Stop talking," he interrupted immediately.

Her smile widened. "Are you that close?"

She couldn't see him shake his head, but he must have; she could feel him shift beneath her. "No. But if you keep talking like that, I'm going to blow my –"

"All right," she told him quietly, sympathetically.

That wasn't what she wanted – not yet anyway. Not until she'd had plenty of time to get herself off, she told herself, though admittedly that would hardly take any time at all; in the scant minutes since he'd penetrated her, her body had relaxed, her anus used to the stretch of his thick, hardened member, and she thought that, even if he were close, it wouldn't bother her.

She was ready as well for that.

That knowledge firmly planted in her mind, she finally began to move. His hands moved to her hips to help her rise up. His dick slowly dragging out of her body, she moaned at the sensation and paused. When only the first couple of inches were inside of her, she forced herself back down onto his slicked cock.

No, this wasn't going to take long.

Rocking against him, Cuddy quickly built up to a faster pace. Her ass bounced against his thighs with each downward thrust, and in the back of her mind, she was aware that they would both be feeling the aftermath of this act for the rest of the day easily. But at that point, she didn't care. He felt so good sliding in and out of her, the lubricant enough to make the act fluid without being so slippery that there was no traction at all.

Her entire body tingled, _burned_ with the heat they were creating together. Sweat trickled down her back; her juices mingled with the lube around her hole.

It felt amazing.

And he agreed – so loudly that she was sure that the neighbors heard him. "Fuck!" He thrust upward, matching her own movement with such intensity that she had to grip his knees tightly to avoid being thrown off.

"Oh God!" she practically screamed, as he pushed into her further than he had been. "Touch me."

It wasn't an order.

Cuddy would have liked to claim that it was, but her words weren't said with any sense of authority.

Not at all.

She was _begging_.

And it was obvious to anyone who heard her... though she silently hoped that her audience consisted solely of the man doing this to her.

Actually that wasn't true. Part of her hoped that even House hadn't heard her. Because as much as she wanted his touch, she wasn't sure that that was worth hearing him brag about it indefinitely.

Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) though, he had heard her. And in response, he asked her, "You want me to touch you?"

"Yes." Her voice was throaty, the word strained with desire.

"Where?" She was too busy trying to time her downward movements with his thrusts to answer. But House wouldn't let the comment go that easily. "_Where_?" he asked with a well-delivered smack to her ass cheek.

She didn't even know how to answer. Her mouth was dry from panting. English seemed like a foreign concept to her at that moment, and when she did speak, her sentences were confused, rambling. "I – I don't know – anywhere, my pussy, my clit, anywhere, please. Please!"

Immediately the one hand he'd left gripping her hip shifted. Sliding around her waist and downwards, his fingers quickly spread her lips coated in her desire. "So wet for me," he murmured in long, dragged out syllables.

"Yes," she agreed. She was – wet and hot and ready to fall apart. She hoped he was ready to come, because she definitely was.

"Such a good girl," he nearly cooed. "Taking it in the ass for me. So good and naughty all at the same time."

He slipped two fingers inside of her, and she screamed at the new sensation. "Oh God, oh God, oh, God..."

She said it, cried it over and over. And the thing that House liked about it best was that she hadn't even come yet. She was close, very close, teetering on the precipice even. But she hadn't gone over yet, and still, he could make her shout like she was.

He could make her scream God.

Pride surged inside of him as he violently thrust his dick and fingers up into her accommodating body. "Please!" she repeated. "More!"

He could feel his own desire begin to coil in his belly. He could give and take more, but it wouldn't be long before he emptied himself of all he had.

That was okay though. The second he let his thumb run along her clit, she came.

Loudly.

_So_ loudly that he didn't even hear himself scream as he surged within her one last time. Her pussy clenched tightly around his fingers, he pushed himself into her as far as he could go. And then, coming in several thrusts, he felt as though her ass was milking every last drop out of him, robbing him of every bit of semen he possessed.

Their bodies melded together so completely, it took her a minute or two to gain enough control of her muscles that she could slide off of him. And even then, she simply collapsed onto the bed next to him, a girlish laugh catching in the back of her throat.

Comfortable silence descending over them, it took them a while before either one of them had enough breath to speak.

His gaze cast towards the ceiling, he said calmly, "Well, that was fun."

"Hmm" was all she said in agreement.

"So…." He looked over at her. She was still flushed along her cheeks and nose, looking almost as though she were cold. But he, of course, knew better, and that made him smile. So much so that he was still grinning when he asked her, "What's for breakfast?"

_To be Continued_


	14. Chapter 14

Author's Notes: This chapter wouldn't exist without the support of people like EllieShelly, lin12344, Temo, IHeartHouseCuddy, xxClouds, kellpo, TetraFish06, newsession, Josam, hfspc, scullyschik, tanya, red blood, dmarchl, Jane Q. Doe, babygur0506, wrytingtyme, and Scuddyrific. Thank you so much for taking the time to leave me some encouragement to help propel me forward. It means a lot.

_Disclaimer: House is the property of people far more capable than I am._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Fourteen: Discovery**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

House never expected her to answer the question. Well, okay, he did expect her to do that, but in his mind, the only response she would have given him would have been something along the lines of, "I'm not your personal chef."

And he would have been glad about that, because, of all the talents she possessed, creating food that was actually edible was not one she often displayed.

Yet, as she crawled off the bed, what she said with a shrug was, "Eggs, bacon… the usual, I guess."

She was too busy looking around the room for her clothes and bathrobe to notice the incredulous look he was giving her. "I don't know." But as she got dressed, she added, "I have to wake Rachel up –"

"You mean, assuming we didn't already do that." He waggled his eyebrows lasciviously for added effect.

"Yes." Her voice hitched on the word, and she instantly cleared her throat.

"You're blushing."

But she ignored the comment. "Assuming she's still asleep, I have to wake her up – feed her, give her her medicine."

"Right." It was impossible to miss in her voice a pervasive sense of duty, but he didn't say anything about it. Maybe he should have; maybe as her… partner, it was _his_ duty to remind her that managing Rachel's health was not something she could afford to resent. Doing that, letting Rachel see her feel that way, would just make _Rachel_ less willing to the needles and the drugs and the diet that she already felt had been forced upon her.

But he ended up letting Cuddy go into the bathroom to brush her teeth anyway. Because, while part of him recognized that his point was an important one, he also saw how hypocritical it would be for him to criticize Cuddy over… well just about anything when it came to her daughter.

Really, how could he even think of judging her when he was the one who couldn't even hold the little girl when she was scared? How could he tell Cuddy how to behave when he couldn't even muster up enough affection for the child they both _lived_ with?

He couldn't.

So he didn't.

But then again, even if he wanted to, she didn't give him much of an opportunity to say anything.

The subject solidly back on breakfast, she said, between strokes of her toothbrush, "But you can stay in bed if you want."

Truth be told, part of him thought that that would be for the best. When he'd just been in bed with Cuddy, he'd allowed himself briefly to forget that anything else had happened in the past twenty-four hours. But now that she was up and getting dressed and talking about Rachel… it was impossible to pretend like nothing had occurred the previous night.

And with that came the burgeoning realization that he would have to do something the second he saw the kid.

What that something was, he had no idea. He just knew that, once he came in contact with her, he'd be expected to do something, _say_ something. And since he had no clue what that was, like a coward, he welcomed the possibility of putting it off indefinitely.

Perhaps understanding this, Cuddy offered as she came back into the bedroom, "I'll bring you breakfast in bed if you want."

He was ready to turn her down. It was a nice offer, but the fact was he wanted neither salmonella nor the tall task of guessing what the hell he was actually eating. Oh, she'd said bacon and eggs, but being told what she'd made for you rarely ever made a difference in the end. Sometimes she got it right, but more often than not her meat somehow always looked exactly like her vegetables, and burnt or undercooked, it almost always looked like an amorphous blob in some brownish hue.

Again, _sometimes_, she got it right. Every now and then, she would do something so wrong that it oddly tasted amazing. But the chances of that happening at any given time were… _slim_ – almost as slim as an offer from her to bring him breakfast in bed.

And it was then that he realized just how weird all of this was.

Why _was_ she willing to bring him breakfast in bed?

"What do you want?" he asked suddenly, as she slipped her arms through her gray bathrobe.

She looked at him in confusion. "What are you talking about?" There was a touch of innocence in her voice, but it was the forced kind.

"So you _do_ want something."

She shook her head. "I don't want anything."

"Not even to keep me from Rachel?" he asked, his eyes narrowing on her.

The pitch in her voice was higher when she responded immediately, "I _want_ you to spend time with her."

But that didn't seem like a good answer either. "You said you weren't going to push," he accused.

And that made her laugh humorlessly. "I see," she said after a moment. "You're so afraid of what's going to happen that you've decided to pick a fight with me."

He shook his head. "I'm not –"

"_Really_." The doubt was impossible to ignore. "I offer to do something nice for you. That rat maze brain of yours decides to twist that into something _bad_, and now, no matter what my reasons are, I'm trying to screw you over." With an almost violent effort, she tied the sash of her bathrobe tightly around her waist.

"That's not – that's not what I was saying."

She stared at him for a moment, as though she were assessing him. When she spoke though, she was patient. Her tones equally measured, she said slowly, "I want you to spend time with Rachel. She would love it, and it would be good for both of you. I won't deny that. _But_," she said, holding up a hand to prevent him from interrupting. "I know that the very idea of doing that terrifies you."

"It doesn't –"

"Whatever." Clearly she believed it was a lie, a lie she didn't have time for. "Which is why I know better than to force any of this on you."

"Really?" This time he was the one who sounded doubtful.

"_Yes_." She sighed and sat at the foot of the bed. "I would have to be completely blind not to know how uncomfortable all of this makes you. And while I hope you know – as I _definitely_ do – that our relationship can't... _last_," she finished hesitantly. "If you don't put forth _some_ effort into her on_ some_ level, I also know that pushing you is _not_ going to work."

House considered what she was saying for a moment. He didn't doubt her, not exactly. But he wanted a chance to let her words wash over him, wanted the opportunity to really let everything she was trying to tell him sink in.

She, however, took this as more denial on his part. And seemingly desperate to prove him wrong, she said calmly, "If I was _that_ willing to brush aside your concerns, I would have told you last night that Rachel wants to see her grandmother and that I invited her."

At first he didn't understand. Why would she need to consult_ him_ about inviting her own mother? Or putting it a different (and probably more apt) way, since _when_ had Cuddy cared about seeking his approval on this matter? Usually, he didn't even know Mommie Dearest was coming until he found garlic arranged in a crucifix on the front door or until farmers reported crop circles or livestock slaughtered under suspicious conditions or something of the like.

But then... _then_ he realized that Cuddy wasn't talking about _her_ mother at all. She was talking about _his_. "Oh, how nice of you," he replied bitterly. "You don't invite my mother, but you'll let the spawn call her –"

"I couldn't stop that if I wanted to."

"Don't believe you."

Admittedly, it was childish and petulant. The fact that he was lying on top of the bed absolutely naked didn't help his image, but that couldn't be helped.

"What am I supposed to do, House? Your mother adores Rachel. _Rachel_ likes having a grandmother who isn't pure evil." She shrugged. "I'm not... _encouraging_ a relationship between them, but I'm not going to _discourage_ it either. And no matter what," she said pointedly. "I've never used their affection for one another to manipulate _you_."

"That's because you know it wouldn't work."

"Well, it wouldn't," she agreed. "But my point is that it would be wrong."

"Yes."

"I want you to have a relationship with Rachel. Yes. Of course, I do. But I'm not going to interfere, not like that, not with your mother – although I do think she would like to see Rachel soon – and certainly not with _breakfast_."

He was reluctant to believe her. He wasn't even sure why that was. All things considered, he should have been thrilled to know that she wasn't going to pressure him either way. But for some reason, House still found himself reticent to take her words at face value.

And she didn't miss that... or appreciate his disbelief. "Fine," she said grudgingly. "Believe what you want. I'm going to go make breakfast. If you want to stay here, stay here. You want to come out and join us, fine."

He opened his mouth to respond, but Cuddy got up and hurried out of the room before he could. Shutting the bedroom door behind her, she told herself that she wasn't running away.

She _wasn't_.

She was just... choosing not to engage in his insanity any more (or at least not until she knew that Rachel was okay).

In her heart, she fully believed that he would come around. Maybe she was naive to think it, but she knew that House loved her.

A lot.

And though he was reluctant to feel anything for Rachel, though it terrified him to do so, Cuddy was sure that he wouldn't give her up in order to avoid bonding with a child. He would never do that.

Which was why she didn't feel the need to push him. House would eventually get there, and if he could do it on his own, they would all be better for it. Because the last thing Cuddy wanted was for the other two people in her immediate family to have a bond solely, because she'd _forced_ it to happen.

At best, that would be a temporary solution, one that would breed contempt in the end. House would resent her for forcing a child on him, and Rachel would end up hating them both for it. So Cuddy was determined to hold herself back.

Even if it made no sense that House and her daughter should be so distant from one another.

True, Rachel had taken the first step last night. She had been the one to admit that, actually, she did care about House. And Cuddy knew that all of that was great, would _be_ great for everyone involved. That wasn't what she meant though.

When she said it made no sense that they should be distant, she meant that she didn't understand why House and Rachel should have remained so apart for all of these years. They _lived_ together, for crying out loud.

Shouldn't that have counted for something?

Even if it didn't, surely, the fact that House was, in some regards, a little boy... shouldn't that have made a difference? They both liked playing video games, reading children's books, and clinging to Cuddy herself like she was an impressive toy lying in the sandbox.

And, as it turned out, both had decided to begin this morning by being as difficult as they could be. Of course, Cuddy would keep _that_ similarity to herself. But she couldn't help but think it when she tried to wake Rachel up.

Despite the hour, the little girl was still sleeping, curled up in the exact position Cuddy had last seen her in. And though Rachel would have normally been up long by now on most days, today, she actually tried to brush Cuddy's warm hand off her shoulder.

"Rachel," she said quietly. "It's time to wake up."

Rachel rolled away, pulling her shoulder away from Cuddy's fingers.

"C'mon, monkey. Time to get up and eat some breakfast."

"Noooooo." The whine lasted several seconds, only to be cut off as Rachel buried her face into her pillow.

"Yes, it's time to get up."

But in the end, getting up was more like Cuddy pulling the covers off of her daughter's body and gently lifting her out of the bed.

"No!"

Cradling her in her arms, Cuddy rocked her a little bit. "I know you want to sleep. But we need to eat breakfast and take our medicine."

Why she'd ever expected that to work, she didn't know. Perhaps if she'd been more awake herself, she would have realized that mentioning the 'm' word would only make Rachel want to avoid waking up more.

"No medicine" was how Rachel tried to reply. But the words were so slurred and mashed together that it ended up sounding more like "Nomecine."

"Yes, come on." Cautiously Cuddy stood up, careful to make sure she didn't drop her daughter. That was just what they didn't need. "Let's brush your teeth and –"

Rachel let out a loud whine, but Cuddy persisted, carrying the little girl to the bathroom. "Do you need to potty?"

This too was apparently the wrong thing to say. Rachel's chubby cheeks turning a bright pink suddenly, it was obvious that she didn't appreciate the question. Despite the fact that she'd just wet the bed the past night, she clearly felt she still had some dignity to maintain, much to Cuddy's amusement.

"I'm not a baby!" Rachel snapped irritably.

"Then you can brush your teeth and your hair all by yourself like a big girl, can't you?"

It was the kind of emotional blackmail her own mother would have loved, Cuddy thought with an almost queasy sensation rooting itself in the pit of her stomach.

No. It was _exactly_ the kind of thing her mother would have said, and she knew it. But there was no taking it back now. The words had already been said, and that was that.

"I'm not a _big_ girl either!"

Truthfully, it would have been comical if Cuddy didn't intuitively understand that her daughter hated being called big, because in her mind, big had meant, did mean, and would always mean _fat_.

But again, there was no taking the words back at this point.

All Cuddy could do was work with what she'd said.

Setting her daughter on her feet, she agreed. "No, you're not big. You're my little girl." Rachel seemed slightly mollified by this, and a kiss to her messy hair calmed her even further. "And, my little girl, _you_ need to brush your teeth and your hair before we eat breakfast."

"I'm hungry."

"I know. We slept in late today," Cuddy explained, using her fingers to comb through her daughter's hair. "So as soon as you clean yourself up, we can eat." Rachel nodded her head in understanding. "I can help you if you want, or, if you can do it yourself, Mommy will go start breakfast."

At that, Rachel hesitated, which did not go unnoticed.

"What's wrong?" Cuddy asked, concerned.

"Where's House?"

It was an innocent question, if one that made absolutely no sense given the context.

"Sleeping," she answered simply.

Rachel reached for her Scooby Doo toothbrush. "Can I wake him up?"

"Not right now." Cuddy helped squeeze a dollop of toothpaste onto the brush the plastic Scooby had wedged in his paws.

"Why not?"

"Because he's asleep."

She expected Rachel to point out that being asleep hadn't stopped anyone from waking _her_ up. But what she said was, "But I want_ him_ to make me breakfast."

Oh. "Well, that's not going to happen."

Rachel was reluctant to let the point go though. She asked multiple times if she could wake him up – while she brushed her teeth, after she brushed her teeth, while she was peeing, as she washed her hands, while she brushed her hair, as she followed her mother out to the kitchen... She even went so far as to try and barge into the bedroom as they past the door. Thankfully though, by that point, Cuddy had anticipated such a move, and everyone was spared Rachel seeing House naked.

_Again_.

But that still didn't stop Rachel from trying.

As Cuddy laid strips of bacon along the length of the broiling pan, Rachel said, "But I want –"

"Yes, I know what you want," Cuddy interrupted, tired of hearing about it. "But it's not going to happen today. You're just going to have to eat what I make you."

Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Rachel, who was sitting on the kitchen counter, scrunch her face up in disgust. And Cuddy added pointedly, "I didn't see you complaining when we were making cookies yesterday."

Rachel kicked her legs in the air a little impatiently but apparently decided to pretend that she hadn't heard what her mother was saying. Instead, she changed the subject. "I don't like vegetables." She glared at the pan of sautéing peppers, mushrooms, and onions Cuddy had started cooking only minutes ago.

"I know, but they're good for you."

"I don't want dem."

"I know, but you have to eat them anyway," she said, incredibly familiar with this conversation.

"I don't want to."

Setting the tray of bacon in the oven, Cuddy looked over at Rachel. "I _know_," she repeated. "But –"

"When House makes breakfast, I don't have to –"

"_House _would let you eat a box of Twinkies if you asked. He –"

"Really?" Rachel's excited eyes were as wide as saucers. She was obviously wondering how she'd gone her whole life and not realized she could get snack cakes whenever she wanted by simply asking the right adult for them.

Of course, that wasn't actually the case. House might have been willing to leave vegetables out of his scrambled eggs, but he wouldn't feed her anything that would hurt her; he wasn't _that_ stupid.

"No," Cuddy said quickly. "I was being facetious."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means I wasn't being serious. He's not going to give you Twinkies." As Cuddy dumped a bowlful of beaten egg into the pan with the vegetables, she warned Rachel, "Don't ask him."

"But I like Twinkies. And Oreos. And M&Ms. And peanut butter –"

"Where are you getting peanut butter?" Cuddy asked sharply. Perhaps the better question was where Rachel was getting any of this nutritional garbage, but since she was only allergic to the peanut butter, Cuddy focused on that.

Rachel shrugged innocently. "No where."

"Are you lying?" When she hesitated, Cuddy added in a threatening voice, "Rachel."

"Umm... I don't know." But Rachel must have realized just how bad of a lie that was, because only a sliver of a second past before she admitted, "Snack time."

Cuddy sighed, though she didn't exactly feel any relief come with the long exhale. "At school?"

"Uh huh."

"Rachel, you know you can't have any of those things. They're not –"

"I know." Frowning deeply though, Rachel added, "But they say pick something, so I taked what I wanted."

Angrily, Cuddy scraped at the bottom of the pan with the spatula in her hand. Thankfully though, her voice wasn't quite as unpleasant. "And they didn't have anything you could eat."

"Nope." It struck her as odd that Rachel didn't sound as though she were lying then.

"Really?"

"Yup."

"No carrots?"

"No."

"Or –"

"No fruits, no vegetables," Rachel practically sang.

And Cuddy wasn't sure what to believe then. Would her daughter lie in order to avoid getting in trouble for eating things she'd been forbidden to touch? Of course. But usually when she did that, Cuddy knew. And right now, it didn't seem like Rachel was lying.

But then that didn't really make sense either, because if she were telling the truth, then that meant that the school had willfully ignored all of Rachel's conditions and put her life at risk for... what? Convenience?

It was a troubling thought but one Cuddy knew she couldn't dwell on now.

She _wanted_ to.

Or rather, she wanted to call whoever it was she needed to talk to get an answer immediately. _But_ it was a Sunday morning; the school wasn't going to be open, and even if she could find the private number for the _jackass_ she needed to disembowel, the chances of her being able to get a hold of said jackass were admittedly slim. So there was nothing to do, no option available to her other than to wait until Monday morning.

Sighing, she told Rachel, "All right. I'll take care of it."

"No carrots."

"We'll see." But seeing Rachel's disappointment, Cuddy conceded the point. "I will do what I can."

It wasn't an empty promise. Given all of the restrictions her daughter had had forced upon her, it wasn't hard to want to please Rachel when it came to food. There were times where giving Rachel something she hated was unavoidable. But surely, asking for a snack that wouldn't kill her or make her gag in disgust wasn't too much of a demand.

"Okay," Rachel replied in a voice that made it clear that she believed her mother. "Can we build a snowman?"

"Uh…." Cuddy had no desire to go play in the snow. But what she said was a diplomatic, "Maybe later."

"When?"

"I don't know."

"Right now?" Rachel asked hopefully.

Cuddy shook her head, bending over to turn the bacon. "We're going to eat breakfast now."

"And then –"

"And _then_," Cuddy said in interruption. "Then Mommy has to go meet her friend John."

"That's _boring_," Rachel replied with a pout.

But Cuddy didn't get a chance to reply. Because it was at that moment that _House_ spoke up and said, "Oh, I don't know about that, kid. This sounds kinda interesting to me."

Only one thought flitted through her mind:

She was caught.

She didn't want to believe she was, but she didn't think she was lucky enough for him to think John meant anyone other than the former-patient-turned-top-donor whom he _despised_.

Feeling as though she'd been doused in ice water, Cuddy slowly, guiltily straightened her back once more. And then, it wasn't hard to understand why she felt chills running through her body; the cold glare House was giving her was the obvious cause.

To be completely honest, she expected him to start yelling right then and there. But he didn't. He just told her quietly, "Pass me the spatula for the eggs. They're going to start burning if someone doesn't turn them."

Awkwardly she listened, handing him the utensil. She wasn't sure what he was getting at by focusing on the food and not yelling at her. But she went along with it quietly doing what he wanted.

Yet, as the seconds went by, she found herself unable to keep silent. Maybe she should have appreciated the reprieve, but all she could feel was dread over how he would react when they did have the inevitable conversation about John.

Impatience and anxiety seizing hold of her, she could no longer follow House's lead. Even if he seemed willing to put their fight off, she couldn't.

She wouldn't.

But when she spoke, it was not to him but to Rachel. "Go get a sweater. You're going to get cold without one."

Whether Rachel actually believed her or simply sensed that a fight was brewing, Cuddy didn't know. But nonetheless, Rachel slipped off of the kitchen counter and skipped towards her bedroom.

And yet... House didn't say anything.

At all.

No yelling, no sarcasm, no questions – not even to verify that the John Cuddy was talking about was the John he hated.

House said nothing. He just stared at the eggs, stirring them leisurely as they cooked.

And she couldn't take it.

Again, maybe she should have been able to, but considering all of the _crap_ they'd found themselves surrounded by this weekend, she just didn't have the stomach to wait for the other shoe to drop. "All right," she said almost instantly. "You know the truth. Let's get this over with."

"Get what over with?" he asked calmly, which just agitated her further.

"You know what I'm talking about."

He shrugged. "I really don't."

"Oh _shut up_," she snapped.

"I'm not doing anything."

"Yes, you are," she accused, as she grabbed a plate to put the finished bacon on. "Stop acting like nothing's wrong."

Again he shrugged. "Why would something be wrong?" Turning off the burner, he said as though it didn't matter to him at all, "My girlfriend wants to see her ex –"

"We spent one night together," she corrected. "He's not my ex."

"Right," he agreed, carrying the pan of eggs over to the table. "My girlfriend wants to see a guy she _casually_ took her panties off for, a guy who treats her like a whore –"

"He does not," she said, the words practically hissed out.

But he pretended not to hear what she was saying. "– whose affections he can buy with his money. Why would I be upset about that?"

She gritted her teeth together and fought the urge to throw the plate of bacon in her hands at his face. "You've made your point."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Cause it usually takes you a while to catch on to –"

"So now I'm a prostitute _and_ a moron," she said, reading between his lines. "Thanks."

"Actually," he replied in a rather snotty tone. "You're neither. But if you're going to let some Village People _reject_ treat you like the former and expect me to be okay with it, then I can only assume that you'd like me to see you as the latter."

He headed back to the kitchen to grab plates and silverware with her hot on his heels.

"The hospital needs the money," she insisted.

"I know."

"And he'll give it to me."

"Great."

"Without any questions, without strings attached."

"Even better."

As she grabbed the cups, she felt incredibly tempted to punch him. Here she was, trying to explain her reasoning, even though, if she were being honest, she didn't feel as though she owed him _any_ explanation. But for every piece of information she gave him, he simply and derisively wrote her off.

"Stop it," she barked, reaching into the cupboards to get cups.

But he didn't. His tone breezy, he told her, "Just juice for me, sweet cheeks."

And that was precisely how breakfast went. Rachel took charge of most of the conversation, offering everyone a well-formed diatribe against vegetables – one that House, of course, agreed with. But every now and then, Cuddy would try to broach the topic of John.

Predictably though, each time she did that, he shot her down by refusing to engage in the conversation.

Was it childish? Sure. He would gladly cop to that. He definitely wasn't going to pretend like this was one of his finer moments, anyway. But then he also wasn't going to go through the charade Cuddy seemed desperate to play. He wasn't going to act like she'd considered or would consider his feelings about this anyway.

Obviously she wasn't going to think about him and _hadn't_. If she had at any step along the way, she would have gone to anyone else for the money the hospital needed. She would have told him what she wanted to do a long time ago, and even then, she wouldn't have done _that_.

But here she was, practically smug with the solution she'd used – at most – two brain cells to come up with.

And maybe he _was_ being immature by feeling as though he couldn't even bear to look at her. Yet that was exactly how he felt and precisely why he got up before he'd even finished his breakfast and walked away.

Deciding to take refuge in the shower, House did his best _not_ to think about what she'd decided to do. Every single time he did, he imagined how she would grovel for that asshole's money and how he would, in turn, be even more of a prick after he gave her the cash she needed.

And of course, when that happened, Cuddy would take the check and put up with (or worse, ignore) all of his bad qualities out of gratitude and just in case she ever needed money in the future.

Which made House bubble with rage. So the only thing to do was pretend like none of this was happening. But as hot water cascaded down his bare back in rivulets, he quickly realized that Cuddy wasn't going to be complicit with his plan.

After all, he'd only been in the shower a few minutes before she barged in. All of the warm, humid air escaping, he glared at her accusingly. "I didn't ask you to join."

She acted as though she hadn't heard the anger in his voice. He knew she had, but she pretended to be completely oblivious as she stepped into the shower stall with him. "You're wet and naked," she replied gently, laying her head on his back and wrapping her arms around his waist. "I can't resist that."

He paused. "I think that's supposed to be my line."

Pressing a kiss to his back, Cuddy told him quietly. "I'm sorry." And he knew it had absolutely nothing to do with her wet and naked line. "I know this bothers you, but –"

"You don't care," he finished for her. "Great. You can go now."

She sighed. "That's not what I was going to say."

"But that's what it amounts to." He felt her reach for the washcloth and soap, and he waited for her to respond. But when she didn't, he pressed her for an answer. "Isn't it?"

"House…."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Fine," she said without anger. Oh, absolutely, part of her was annoyed. Yet she knew that he would never let her explain if she didn't give him this one point. "I'm going to do this regardless of how you feel. Yes."

"Glad we cleared that up. And since I can wash my own back, I think we're done here." He reached around to try and grab the washcloth of her hands, but she didn't relent.

"We are _not_ finished," she said, scowling.

"I disagree."

"Well, you're wrong."

"Not really," he replied with a shrug.

"House, I know that you don't want me to do this."

"Of course you do."

"_And_," she said rather loudly. "If I could get that money on such short notice with no questions asked from _anyone else_, I would."

He turned around to face her angrily. But seeing _her_ wet and naked made it almost impossible for him to stay irate. She really was hot, he thought at that moment. _But_, he forced himself to realize that, driving himself back to the point, _she_ was wrong. And he had every right to be pissed.

"Yeah, imagine my surprise that you're going to Mr. Beefcake Benefactor." He sneered.

Cuddy, however, was unmoved. "I'm going to him, because he's convenient for me. He lives in Princeton. Over half my donors don't." He opened his mouth to respond, but she was quick to keep talking so that he could not. "He's never cared where any of his money went. _Again_, unlike a good portion of the donors I talk to."

House snapped back, "What a swell guy. I'm sure he also doesn't care where he sticks his penis in you either –"

But she ignored the comment, talking over him by saying, "_And_ he's dumb enough to not ask questions. He will literally give me the money without asking a single question, which is kind of important considering _why_ we need the money."

Reluctantly – _very_ reluctantly – he could admit that maybe that made some sense. "So then –"

"I'm not going to have sex with him. I'm not going because I _want_ to have sex with him," she said adamantly. "In no way am I attracted to him."

"You've _had_ sex with him." Was she really going to stand there and say she wasn't attracted to him at all?

Apparently.

Setting the washcloth and soap down, she licked her lips and asked him point black, "What do you remember about that night?"

"The night you slept with him?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "Not much. You were trying to eat his face on the dance floor, but –"

"And that doesn't tell you _anything_?"

Cocking his head to the side, he said casually, "Probably that you were really drunk, hard up, and dumb enough to jump on the first penis that came your way."

"Pretty much," she agreed dryly, throwing her hands in the air.

He blinked. "Really?"

"_Yeah_."

That couldn't be right. "_Seriously_?"

"Yes."

Well, now he felt a little dumb – though he would never admit it. "You just had sex, because –"

"I was drunk and horny, yup."

"_Really_?"

She smiled a little but then asked, out of curiosity, "You didn't think it was odd that I left the party with a man who was dressed like an uptight version of Wilson?"

"I guess."

"I was desperate then. I'm not now – I have no reason to be, and I'm definitely not attracted to him."

He nodded his head in understanding but said nothing.

"If I really wanted to be with him, don't you think that, when he was your patient, I would have been by his side the entire time?"

Perhaps predictably he answered by asking a question of his own. "He was my patient?"

"You're confusing him with another patient you dreamed about so much that it made you unable to urinate?"

He had never told her that, but it wasn't hard to figure out who had.

_Wilson_.

"What else has Wilson told you?"

"What else has Wilson told _you_?" she threw back at him.

"Nothing."

"…Same."

Of course they were both lying. But Wilson's loose lips were hardly new to either of them. Over the years, they'd both become well accustomed to telling their friend a secret… only to learn later that he'd told the other person, and rather than be angry, both House and Cuddy had accepted that that was how things were.

Maybe there had been a time where it would have felt like a betrayal. Perhaps when Wilson had told him that Cuddy had been having trouble bonding with Rachel, House thought as an example. But in an odd sort of way, his trust for Cuddy and her trust of him had grown in such a manner that Wilson telling either one of them all of these things was as good as telling nobody at all. House wasn't one to think of Cuddy as a part of himself, but bizarrely enough, when it came to Wilson's trust and keeping secrets, they were extensions of one another.

And it didn't matter that she knew one of the many things House had told Wilson. It didn't feel like that trust had been broken in any way.

Thinking about it like that, he understood then that he didn't have any reason to be distrustful of Cuddy. If she could know so many awful things about him and not turn away, then surely he could trust her to _not_ cheat on him.

Besides, it was like she said or sort of said, right? If she could be attracted to a man like him, then she definitely couldn't be attracted to a man like Sergeant Douche Bag.

"Fine," he muttered after a moment, picking up the washcloth and soap she'd set down.

"Fine?" She looked confused.

He shrugged like it was no big deal. "Go panhandle." He gestured for her to turn around, so he could soap her back.

But she didn't move. "Really?"

"Yup." When she still didn't turn around, he focused his attention on soaping one of her breasts.

She brushed his hands off of her though. "_Really_."

"That's what I said," he replied irritably. "So when are you and the kid leaving?"

"Well…."

"Yes?"

"Actually," she said in a tentative manner. "I was hoping… _you_ would watch Rachel."

He said nothing at first. Which she supposed was a good sign. But then he _kept_ saying nothing, and that made her worry that he was just building up to a very angry and loud response.

The only noise in the shower the sound of water splashing against the tile, she waited for him to speak, waited for him to agree or disagree or do _something_. But when he did finally break the silence between them, she almost wished he'd stayed silent.

His voice listless and pained, he said, "I thought you weren't going to push."

She closed her eyes and rubbed her hand along her forehead. Slowly realizing what he was thinking, she blinked a few times before saying quickly, "I promise you that this is just a coincidence."

He looked at her doubtfully. "Yeah. Just a coincidence."

"I told you I wouldn't force this on you. But that doesn't mean there aren't going to be times where I need you."

For a moment, he hesitated. And that was enough for her to know that she could make him come around if she played her cards right.

"Look," she said calmly. "I know this is probably the _last_ thing you want to do."

"Pretty much."

"_But_ I can't take her with me."

"Yeah," he said derisively. "It's probably better if you leave the little cock blocker with me, right?"

"I have no intention of sleeping with him!"

Her voice seemed to boom against the tile in the shower, and not for the first time that day, she hoped Rachel hadn't heard her.

"Then why _not_ take her?" House asked in a voice that was equally loud.

"Because," Cuddy said, forcing herself to calm down and talk at a level Rachel wouldn't hear. "She's not going to sit still and be quiet while I needle him for cash. Even if _he_ wouldn't mind her being there, it's not going to be fair for _Rachel_ to sit through that."

"And what am I supposed to do with her here?"

She tossed her hands in the air. "I don't know. Make her watch a movie. Tell her to go play with her toys."

House couldn't help but think, however, that there was something else to this story. Because it was at that moment, when she finished listing things he could do, that her eyes seemed to light up with a spark of realization. And he knew that there was more he needed to know.

"What now?" he asked, dreading the question even as it came out of his mouth.

"Nothing," she said immediately.

"I don't think that's true."

"All right," Cuddy said with a long sigh. "Do you remember, last night, I told you Rachel has a yeast infection?"

"Not at all." As an afterthought, he added, "Sounds like the kind of thing I couldn't possibly be interested in. Why?"

"She needs an antifungal, which we don't have at the moment. And after she wet the bed last night, I used the rest of the cream she –"

"Why is this _my_ problem?" But as soon as the words escaped him, he realized that that wasn't exactly what he wanted to ask. Maybe on some level it was, but that certainly wasn't what he'd meant to say. "I mean," he said quickly. "Why can't _you_ take care of it?"

"I could," she admitted with a nod of her head. "But I don't have enough time to go to the drug store before I have to leave."

She hadn't said _his_ name, but it was obvious that that was what she meant, House understood. She wouldn't have enough time before she had to go meet _him_.

"And yes," she agreed slowly. "I could pick it up on the way back. But that would mean she'd be without any medication for –"

"It's not life threatening," he muttered, agitated.

"I _know_ that. _However_, she will be, if she isn't already, uncomfortable. Which probably means nothing to you, but as a doctor, you know how she'll behave."

He opened his mouth to say that he did, but she beat him to it. "She'll start scratching herself, and frankly, our weekend has been awful enough that I don't need yeast on every surface of my home as a capper."

"Thank you," he replied with disgust in the words. "For giving me that mental picture."

Cuddy gritted her teeth but did not lose control. "I'm just saying –"

"That while you're off with your little boyfriend –"

She growled.

But he ignored it and finished his thought. "You want me to take care of your daughter's itchy, burning special place."

"You don't have to put it like that." He could hear the hostility in her voice. "But basically… yes."

"And I would do that because…."

"Because it would be the nice thing to do."

In his estimation, there really wasn't anything she could have said that would have gone over worse with him. "Because I said so," "because I'm going to withhold sex if you don't" – anything along those lines would have been better than what she said.

But what she'd gone with was: it would be the _nice_ thing to do. Meaning, he thought as he turned away from her in the shower, she thought it would be a _change _for him, meaning she thought he _wasn't_ being nice.

And he wasn't sure he could articulate why that bothered him so much. Yet he knew it did. What she'd said _did_ hurt. Even as some part of him understood that she hadn't intended to, House couldn't stop himself from feeling as though she didn't appreciate _anything_ he had done for this relationship.

And he had done a _lot_.

House wouldn't pretend that he was perfect or that she hadn't sacrificed as much as he had. Obviously he wasn't, and obviously she _had_ worked just as hard at making this relationship last. But none of that took away or could take away from he'd done.

For _her_.

He'd never wanted to be a father. He'd never wanted to be anything close to that. But he'd entered this relationship understanding that he would need to..._ deal_ with Rachel, spare her from his anger and his problems and flaws.

He'd known what was expected of him.

And of course, there were times when he'd screwed all of that up, when he'd yelled at Rachel or said something he shouldn't have and hurt her feelings. Again, he knew he wasn't perfect. But he had made an _attempt_. He was _still_ making an attempt at doing something every cell of his being despised or was afraid to do.

Was he all that successful?

The internal voice inside of his head said that no, he hadn't been, not at all. But the fact of the matter was that Rachel had confessed that she'd had feelings for him. Maybe she hadn't said it in as many words, but that was basically what it came down to. She worried about him, wanted him to be in her life. And if that didn't count as some sort of success to Cuddy, he wasn't sure what would.

Yet, she was making it clear now that he was still falling short. _She_ hadn't had to make a sacrifice anywhere near as difficult as _his_ had been, but here she was, he thought bitterly, acting like he owed her _more_.

"'Nice,'" he repeated in a disgusted voice. He refused to turn and look at her then. Afraid of what he might do if he saw her imploring look, House focused his attention completely on soaping his body.

His hands running the bar of soap and the washcloth in long violent strokes, he set out with determination to finish this as quickly as possible. The irony of the situation – that he should be in a hot shower with his incredibly sex girlfriend and simultaneously desperate to _leave_ – was not lost on him. He knew that it was an unexpected twist internally. But he was so sick of twists and turns and, quite frankly, at this moment, _her_ that he didn't bother to finding any amusement in the irony. He just focused on what he'd originally intended to do in the shower.

Dropping the soap and washcloth onto the tile floor, he didn't wait for the spraying water to clean him off. He wanted to be _out_ as soon as possible, and that wouldn't happen, he knew, if he wasted precious time making sure he was as clean as possible. Hurriedly grabbing the shampoo bottle, he said, as he squirted some of the translucent soap into the palm of his hand, "You don't think I've been _nice_?"

Cuddy, seemingly oblivious to his souring mood, simply pointed out, "You called me a prostitute five minutes ago, so –"

"Because I'm pissed," he said, feeling his anger burn through his body in a way that the heat of the water couldn't even begin to touch. And then, as he began to violently rub shampoo through his hair, he couldn't hold himself back. "And why shouldn't I be? What man would do as much as I have?"

"House." It was a mild chastisement all considered. She could have been much more offended than she seemed to be, much more outraged by his behavior. But as it was, she just seemed slightly shocked and dismayed by his words.

"Don't do that. Don't act like I'm –"

"You're taking this all wrong," she said quietly, placing a tentative hand on his back.

"Of course, this is all my fault."

Stepping away from her, he rinsed his hair out. But even as the water pounded against his scalp and forehead, he managed to hear her say, "You know exactly what I meant."

"Oh do I?"

"Stop acting like you don't," she ordered in a dangerous voice. "I'd rather you just _say_ you don't like the idea of being alone with Rachel than pick a fight with me."

His eyes popped back open. He hadn't been doing that… had he?

The question must have been easily read on his face, because Cuddy answered, "That's exactly what you're doing."

"I'm not afraid of being around a five year old."

In terms of defenses, this one wasn't exactly a great one. And whether that was because he said it in a voice that would convince absolutely no one or because the argument itself was awful all on its own, he couldn't say. Perhaps it failed on both counts.

Whatever the reason, it didn't really matter. Cuddy didn't believe him either way.

However, she at least had enough sense not to accuse him of lying. Oh, there was no doubt that that was _exactly_ what she thought, not in his mind anyway. But what she said was, "Then this is a matter of inconvenience for you."

He nodded his head vigorously, water dripping into his eyes.

"Do I need to tell you how willing I am to make this up to you?"

Her arms folded across her chest, her white teeth lightly biting into the pink flesh of her lip, her gaze gently cast upon him with unspoken promise – she was a perfect portrait of a temptress willing (and _more_ than able) to use her feminine wiles to get what she wanted.

And it _was_ tempting to let her.

He would never say that in this moment, he'd been completely immune to her moves. Part of him would like to say that, but no one would reasonably believe that. Not even he, while it was happening, could convince himself that what she was offering was something he should resist.

But he did try.

Even as he sensed that he would cave in the end, he tried hard to act like he didn't want her to make it up to him.

"And who says you_ can_ make it up to me?" he asked, knowing full well that at this point he was merely biding his time.

"Because what you're doing for me is babysitting my daughter," she answered easily. "And that might not be fun, but it's not going to be psychologically scarring, so –"

"It might be." No, he thought instantly. No, that wasn't right. There was no "might" about it. "It _will_ be," he corrected. "You said it yourself. I'm not just babysitting her. You want me to treat her yeast infection, and frankly –"

"You don't have to put the cream on yourself. Just tell her where it goes, and she can do it herself. And if you're really that uninterested –"

"Oh, I _am_."

"Then just give her the fluconazole, and wait until I come home, and I'll do the rest."

He couldn't deny that she was making a concession. He knew that she was. But at the same time, it hardly felt like a victory for _him_.

How could it be though? He'd still be spending time with Rachel.

"House," Cuddy said with a sigh loud enough to pull him from his thoughts. "I know this isn't something you want to do. I know I ask a lot of you, _especially_ when it comes to Rachel."

The way she said this made it sound like she didn't appreciate being forced to admit such truths. However, he didn't care so much about that. For him, the greater importance was on the fact that it _was_ the truth. And he wanted to say that, wanted to tell her that perhaps the real offense was that she used him more often than she realized. But he never got a chance to even open his mouth.

Her voice hardening, she suddenly got to the point. "But I _really_ need you to do this for me. So tell me what I have to do to get you to say yes."

Oh, so she was going to try to _bribe_ him. Of course she would never put it that way; she'd qualify it as bargaining or use some other term that made what she was doing seem more mature than it really was. But it didn't matter what she called it. Whatever the vocabulary, her intentions were clear: she was going to sweeten the deal as much as she could.

And he had half a mind to say no outright. Even if he got something in return, he didn't particularly love the idea of making her feel like she'd _won_. It sounded absurd, yes. But he knew her well enough to know that there was a good chance she'd smugly hold this moment over his head. Like she'd bested him or something, he thought.

Of course, if he asked for something banal or shortsighted, he knew she would be right to feel that way. If he took her up on her offer and failed to _really_ make her pay, she wouldn't be wrong to think she'd gotten the best of him.

So he would either need to think of something he really wanted and she would really hate to give him _or_ he would need to tell her no flat out.

Again, he had half a mind to pass on the offer. He _really_ did. But if he did that… she'd just keep pestering him until he caved.

And he _would_ cave. She was annoying him so much that his head had begun to pound, his blood vessels seemingly just as agitated by her stupidity as the rest of him. And he knew that if he said no now, she would persist, and his headache would only get worse, and then he would have no choice to agree if he wanted to alleviate his pain.

"Fine," he muttered, bitter at the fact that he didn't really have a choice in this.

Needless to say, Cuddy felt differently. A warm smile playing at her lips, she said, "Thank you."

But as she started to take a step toward him (probably to offer him a hug), he held up his hand. "Not so fast," he said snidely. "You don't know what I want."

_That_ gave her pause. "What – uh, what do you want?" She actually sounded unnerved then. Perhaps she realized that she'd opened the door for all sorts of demands.

And maybe that was the problem for him. He could ask for just about anything right now, which was why it was difficult to figure out exactly what he wanted.

Of course, he knew what he didn't want: more sex.

… Well… that wasn't exactly true. Right now he was a little spent from their morning, so maybe he didn't want it this second. But overall, absolutely, he wanted more sex.

However, he wasn't going to use that as a bargaining chip now. Per their agreement from Friday night, she was already putting out whenever he wanted – not that that was any sort of hardship or sacrifice on her part anyway. So he definitely wasn't going to ask for that in exchange for watching Rachel, not when he was already getting plenty of that.

Besides, he wanted Cuddy to give him something she would hate as much as he hated doing his part. But what would she hate doing?

The answer came almost instantly. There were many things she _wouldn't_ like doing, sure. But there was only one thing she had always seemed adamantly against:

She didn't like it when their relationship encroached upon work.

"Clinic duty," he said immediately, feeling himself smirk as the words came out of his mouth.

She repeated the words in a much less positive tone. "Clinic duty."

"Yeah. If I'm going to do this for you, no clinic duty for me… for a month."

"No."

"Then you can take the cockroach with you."

Her jaw clenched together. "I'm not going to let you off of clinic duty for a _month_."

"I think you are."

"I can't give you special treatment. I can't let our personal life –"

"Then I can't watch the kid," he said with a shrug.

She practically turned purple with rage, and he knew he'd won. Naturally, she would search her brain for a different solution that she could placate him with. But she wouldn't come up with anything else to bargain with; of that he was sure.

"Fine," she said eventually. "But not a month."

"Sorry." But he wasn't sorry at all. "I'm going to need a month."

"I'll give you a _week_."

He mulled the offer over. Quickly realizing he probably wouldn't get any better, he nodded his head. "All right. A week – on the condition that _you're_ the one who replaces me."

"Like that wasn't going to happen anyway." Her eyes were narrowed in disgust.

"So that's a yes?"

She threw her hands in the air. "I guess it has to be."

"_Wonderful_."

But obviously it wasn't. Two stubborn people who felt as though they were being forced to do something they didn't want to do – that was never going to make things anywhere close to wonderful.

They were mature enough to finish their shower together without fighting, mature enough for her to let him apply antibacterial cream to her neck and for him to apologize for creating the injury. They were in control enough to talk about what suit he wanted to wear to tonight's dinner part and for her to say that she would take it with her to have it dry cleaned. He was able to ask if she'd written the scrip for Rachel, and she was polite in her response.

Yes, they were capable of being in one another's presence without fighting.

Yet it was impossible to miss that they were both _pissed_ – at one another and the things they'd decided to put each other through. They didn't say anything; there was, surprisingly, no fighting. But every now and then, House would feel her glaring at him or find himself staring at her as though he wished she'd leave already.

Maybe he really did wish she were gone.

But the funny thing about that was: when she finally did leave, he didn't feel any better.

In fact, the second she closed the door behind her, all he felt was dread.

_To be continued_


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Notes: Wow, it's been so long since I've updated! I'm sorry, guys. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations and was worth the wait. Thank you to EllieShelly, Katrina Puffinstuf, paroulis, KNITTYWOMAN, House ever, Gnome Ignominious, TrudyGill23, althea60, Jane Q. Doe, Josam, sydneybristow85, scullyschik, Huddyphoric, theoofoof, DungeonBat, red blood, wrytingtyme, lin12344, Temo, TetraFish06, dmarchl, xxClouds, and IHeartHouseCuddy. Thanks to every single one of you for taking the time to leave me some encouragement. It means a lot to me to get that feedback.

_Disclaimer: The show isn't mine._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Fifteen: Froggie**

_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

"Hold my hand."

"_No_."

House peered down at Rachel. Harsh wind blew the falling and long-since-fallen snow sideways across the parking lot, which made it hard to see anything that wasn't directly in front of his face. But squinting, he could _just_ make out the ire in her dark eyes and flushed cheeks.

And to be honest, that came as no surprise. She'd been on the verge of a tantrum since, it seemed, the second House and Cuddy had unceremoniously ended breakfast. At least, Rachel had been in a bad mood the instant they'd returned to the table.

Of course, it hadn't been – it _wasn't_ – hard to understand why. If there were one thing that had been made clear over the years, it was that Rachel needed a certain level of attention paid to her. Obviously, House recognized that that was true of anyone, but it seemed with the kid that her needs were much higher than most people's.

He didn't begrudge her that.

More often than not, when faced with genuine selflessness, House either found himself unable to respect it or completely taken by surprise by it. And with Rachel, he neither expected nor demanded it of her. When he couldn't even remember the last time he himself had demonstrated such kindness, he knew he couldn't expect it from her.

But regardless of how he felt, the truth was in any case that she needed far more attention than she had received this morning. Between his tense conversation with Cuddy and their unpleasant shower together, Rachel had basically been lost in all of it. There was no denying that; looking back at how breakfast had progressed, House could see that they'd essentially only talked to her to avoid the awkward tension between them.

They'd _used_ her.

Which was bad enough in and of itself, but then Cuddy had made things worse by leaving.

Admittedly, thinking that easily made it seem like he was projecting his issues on to Rachel; that _wasn't _the case, but House could see how someone else might think it was. It certainly would appear to be a suspicious coincidence. Again, though, it wasn't.

The simple fact of the matter was Rachel didn't get unlimited time with her mother. Thanks to work and school, meetings and activities, and the like, the two always seemed to be in want of more time together. And no one seemed to be affected by that fact more than Rachel herself.

Honestly, she'd been so _devastated_ about losing some of the little time she had with her mother that House wasn't surprised by her behavior now.

But that didn't mean he enjoyed it.

He didn't.

Not at _all_.

But then, he had to wonder who _would_ be happy in his place.

Figuring the answer was no one, he bitterly repeated the order to Rachel. "Hold my hand while we cross the parking lot."

"No!"

"Yes."

"I don't wanna!" Her chin pointed upward in defiance. "You can't make me."

He thought about pointing out that he was a couple times bigger than she was and he could easily make her, but he didn't. Intimidation was something he wanted to strive to be above in this situation. Maybe he wasn't above it in other areas of his life, but what would it say about him to resort to it when it came to interactions with a five year old? More importantly, what would it say to _Cuddy_ when Rachel told her?

Not good things.

So he had no choice but to reason with the brat.

"We both know I could make you," he pointed out. "I don't want to, cause that would end messily for both of us. But that means you have a choice to make now."

Rachel didn't look as though she were paying attention at all. The snow was still falling heavily, whipping all about them. Yet every now and then, like at this particular moment, the wind would blow and give them a clear view of something in the shopping center.

"Hey," he said loudly, drawing her focus away from a woman leading her black Great Dane into the vet's office across the parking lot.

Rachel blinked and looked up.

"You want to stand out here in the cold? Fine," he said with a shrug. Obviously he couldn't leave her there, but she didn't know that. "You can stay right here and freeze, but you better hope you don't need your inhaler and that there isn't some creepy pervert who smells like feet waiting to kidnap you."

As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he knew he'd taken a wrong turn somewhere. He hadn't meant to intimidate; he hadn't wanted to be one of those guys who'd just pick the kid up and force her to go wherever her needed her to be. But somehow, he'd ended up in do-what-I-say-or-die territory, and that had to be way worse.

Instantly realizing his mistake, he knew he needed to change tactics and _fast_.

"Never mind," he said quickly, as though saying those words would make Rachel forget them. "Point is, you can either stand out here, or you can come inside…." He cringed, knowing exactly where he was headed with all of this. "And… if you're good, I'll get you something in the store."

_Bribery_.

Inwardly, he asked just how pathetic he could get.

"Like what?" Rachel asked, her large eyes suddenly trained on him with interest.

"I don't know." He sounded peevish, but since he _was_, there was nothing to be done about that. "Whatever you want." Realizing she'd be dumb enough to want a used tampon from the women's bathroom or a box of condoms, he added hastily, "Within reason."

"Okay."

She shrugged and latched on his hand.

And though that had been what he'd wanted… the ease with which she did it made him think that he'd just been played. She'd just been difficult to get that promise from him, to get the _present_ from him.

Normally, he would have appreciated that kind of manipulation. Hell, he'd probably been the one to unknowingly _teach_ her how to do it. But at the moment, he could be neither proud nor concerned over her behavior and his influence on it. He was too bothered by the fact that a _five year old_ had outwitted him.

And not just any five year old.

This was a five year old who ate paste, who asked her mother just the other week why snow wasn't made of cotton balls and what would happen if you ate poop.

And she'd just manipulated _him_?

Well, that was just great, he thought bitterly. Like his day hadn't been bad enough, Rachel had to go and outsmart him.

_Wonderful_.

But as horrible as that was, he didn't want to dwell on it (too much, anyway). After all, he'd gotten what he'd wanted: Rachel was holding onto him and walking with him.

Okay, so that was hardly what he _wanted_. Watching her while Cuddy spent time with that _asshole_ didn't exactly constitute what House wanted. It didn't at all.

However, he supposed it could be worse. He could have been dragging Rachel into the drug store or been forced to try and carry her across the icy parking lot. And at least this way, she was coming with him willingly and without making everyone around them suspect that he was trying to kidnap her.

On that last count, he would have liked to say that no one was even paying attention to them in the store. But that was definitely not the case.

His plan had been to drop Rachel off in the toy aisle, which was within eyesight of the line at the pharmacy and the aisle dedicated to things women put in or on their crotches. He'd (rightly) anticipated that she would prefer to look at the snowman making kits than wait in the long line with him. Indeed, one glance at the huge queue of morons probably waiting to get cold medicine, and Rachel had easily agreed to stay in the toy aisle.

But what House hadn't guessed right was the rest of his plan. Figuring his wait for the meds would be long, he'd decided to put Rachel's prescription in first and then find the over-the-counter cream she needed.

Unfortunately though, a man perusing vaginal creams was bound to attract attention. Of course, he wasn't making it any easier for himself; as a doctor, obviously he knew which brands were generally safe for children and which ones were definitely not. As Cuddy's boyfriend, he knew what she bought. But even with all those factors in play, he still couldn't help but curiously look at the various items in the aisle.

And to the nosy outsider, _that_ made it seem like he had no idea what he was doing.

There were plenty of side glances, women looking at him as though maybe he needed help. Yet it was only when he'd picked up a pack of female condoms that someone finally said something to him.

"Do you need help?" a woman who screamed suburban housewife (and who had been watching him for fifteen minutes) asked.

House looked over at her. Irritated by her officiousness, he couldn't resist the temptation to screw with her mind. "_Yeah_," he said, holding up the box of condoms for her to clearly see the label. "Would you put one of these on? I'm trying to figure out if it's still just like having sex with a plastic bag."

She walked away without giving him an answer.

Which was just as well, really; at that moment, someone from the pharmacy called out, "Cuddy!" And the whole lack of confidentiality aside, what that meant was his prescription was ready, meaning he couldn't spent time tormenting the woman anyway.

Tossing the condoms to the side, he grabbed the cream Cuddy had specifically told him to get. He quickly glanced over to Rachel, to make sure that she was still there, and then headed back into the long line.

Once more he took stock of his situation. And again he told himself that it could be worse. Not that he was saying that this was _good_, he realized. He was just seeing that, as bad as this was, things were going all right.

Again, he looked over in Rachel's direction. He didn't know why he did that at that particular moment. Part of him suspected that he hadn't been able to trust the moment, that any acknowledgment of things being okay meant that they would suddenly go _wrong_. But that thought hadn't coalesced until after he'd already looked at her. And there was no telling why he'd done it in the first place.

He didn't think about the why too much though. At that second, he was far more intrigued by Rachel's behavior.

In her hands was a stuffed rabbit holding a plush carrot. In the back of his mind, he guessed the store was selling them for Easter, but more than anything, the image struck him as… odd.

Rachel was holding the rabbit, but she was barely paying any attention to it. She kept looking up at something else on one of the shelves (which was blocked from his sight by a bottled water display). And when she did look down at the stuffed animal, she would… frown?

The simplest explanation would appear to be that Rachel didn't want the toy in her hands. Given that Rachel was a fairly simple creature, it would stand to reason that the easiest explanation was, in fact, the correct one. But if she didn't want the rabbit, why had she picked it out? Why not just get something else?

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have bothered to find answers to those questions. He just wouldn't have cared to know the reasons. In this case though, if only out of sheer boredom, he decided to figure it out. It wasn't like he had anything better to do, after all.

So, with all of Rachel's medication in hand, he approached her. "That what you want?" he asked gruffly as he stopped in front of her.

She nodded her head.

"Really?"

She nodded her head more enthusiastically to say yes. But he couldn't help but notice her gaze shift to something behind him.

Interested he turned around to see what it was that she'd been looking at. Trying to follow her line of sight, he was immediately confronted by a row of large stuffed monkeys in pastel colors.

Truth be told, there was something intriguing about them. In House's opinion, they sort of looked like Wilson and Curious George had mated, and this was the result. It was something in the beady dark brown eyes, House thought, something in the blank and friendly expression.

Grabbing the nearest one (a purple one), he turned around to face Rachel once more. "You sure you want the rabbit? Or you want one of these?"

Rachel didn't say anything right away. She knew that that would just make him grumblier than he normally was, but she didn't want to say the wrong thing. Cause as much as she really did want the monkey, she _didn't_ want to say she did and have him be mad and say she couldn't have anything.

She didn't want that to happen.

But the longer she stayed quiet, the grumpier he seemed to be. "You gonna answer the question or just stand there like a moron?"

She squeezed the rabbit in her arms tightly. Mumbling, she told him the truth. As much as she didn't want to upset him, she was more afraid of what would happen if Mommy found out she'd lied. "I want the monkey."

"Here." He thrust the monkey at her.

But she didn't take it.

Resisting the urge to scoff and snap at her, he said through gritted teeth, "You said you wanted the monkey. Why aren't you taking it?"

She practically buried her face into the rabbit before explaining in a quiet voice, "I want a blue one."

Wordlessly House swapped the purple one for a monkey that was the shade of a robin's egg. He didn't understand why one was more preferable than the other, but if it would make her more apt to listen to him, then it was fine with him.

"Here." He pushed the large monkey (which was practically half her size) into her arms. As soon as she had a hold of it, he snatched the rabbit out of her grip. Not surprisingly she let go easily, and he unceremoniously stuffed it onto the closest shelf. "Come on."

Heading towards the check out, he never glanced back to make sure Rachel was following. He didn't need to. Her wet sneakers squeaked on the floor behind him, and every now and then, he'd see out of the corner of his eye a flash of bright blue from the monkey in her arms.

There was no complaining, no refusing to come with him. There were no questions, no idle chatter about penguins being unable to fly. There was, in fact, nothing to make her presence unbearable.

And getting to that point had been so easy too, so simple that House actually wondered why he hadn't resorted to bribery before. When it had an effect like this, why not offer her something every time he had to watch over her?

But it was just as he thought that things were going smoothly that everything suddenly turned south.

He was standing in line to pay for everything. Rachel was now at his side. Things were fine.

And then it came time to pay for the monkey.

He slapped onto the counter what he had in his hands and turned to Rachel. "Hand him the monkey."

She didn't. If anything she held on to it tighter.

The cashier smiled patiently. "Is your daddy getting you that?"

No, House realized, reconsidering his assessment. That wasn't a patient smile. It was a "I'm a child molester" smile, probably.

He glared at the balding, elder man with thick glasses and a mustache. He did _not_ want to be called Rachel's father.

Not that this was the first time someone had made that assumption.

Over the years, every now and then, someone would say something. And every time, he wouldn't be able to respond or deny it, because a little girl with an unfriendly man she wasn't related to set off alarm bells in everyone.

_That_ was unfortunate, because by not denying it, House was sure he was giving Rachel the impression that it was _true_. Although, if she actually believed that, she never said anything about it, which he guessed was better than nothing.

As if to prove the point, she said nothing now. She just looked at the cashier blankly.

The man was not deterred. "Well, it's a very cute monkey. Does he have a name?" Rachel nodded. "What is it, sweetheart?"

"Froggie," she said quietly.

House scoffed. Who the hell named their stuffed monkey Froggie?

Never mind, he thought immediately. If anyone was that person, it was clearly Rachel.

"That's great," House interrupted instantly. "Hand the damn thing over."

She knew she had no choice. She would either give it to him, or he would steal it from her. If he wanted her monkey, he would take her monkey, just like he stealed her Halloween candy after she'd hidden it to keep it from him.

He was not nice.

And he'd take her monkey even if she didn't want him to have it.

Actually, now that Rachel thought about it, she was starting to think that he'd only said she could have a toy to get her to do what he wanted. She held his hand, and she'd been good, and now he didn't need her to listen to him any more, so he could just take the monkey back, because he didn't care about giving her a toy or –

"Fine," he said loudly, interrupting her. "I'll take it."

Before she could stop him, he yanked the monkey out of her hands.

He stole her monkey.

She wanted to cry, she wanted her monkey, but didn't. She could cry, but he wouldn't care, and it wouldn't matter. So what was the point?

Rachel opened her mouth to say goodbye to Froggie. She knew he wouldn't give it back to her, and Mommy would just say that she had enough stuffed animals anyway.

But Rachel didn't get a chance to say the words out loud. She started to, but before she could even utter a single word, House was pushing the monkey back into her arms.

"Here."

She squeezed Froggie hard. She didn't know why House had changed his mind, and she didn't care. All that mattered was that she had her friend back, and they could have tea parties together with Puppy, her pink stuffed cat, and she could teach him to ride Pig, her purple stuffed doggie, or Bob, her big giant giraffe.

She kissed Froggie on one of his blue ears. They were going to have so much fun together.

"Come on," House ordered, guiding her out of the store.

He was purposely ignoring the emotions he could plainly read on her face. He'd seen the sadness when he'd taken the monkey away and the joy when he'd given it back. But he wasn't going to react to it either way. It wasn't his fault she was too dumb to realize you had to pay for things before you left the store. And it certainly wasn't to his credit that she was happy now with the stuffed animal in hand.

So he just ignored it and said nothing.

Of course, it wasn't easy to ignore her. Given his luck, it couldn't be that simple, obviously. It just had to be that, when they began to drive home, she'd sit in the back seat and chatter with that stupid stuffed animal endlessly.

Literally, it was nonstop.

"I like eggs, Mr. Froggie. What do you like to eat? Well, Rachel, I like to eat flies and gummy worms – not real worms, because they taste like dirt."

And on and on and _on_ it went.

Again, House tried to ignore her. He tried to focus on the traffic, which was hectic in the snowstorm. But Rachel just kept talking away, and eventually he had to say something.

"Hey, Rach?"

She stopped speaking. And a glance in the rear view mirror showed him that she was looking up at him.

"You know, it's a good thing you chose a blue monkey," he told her carefully. "See, a lot of people don't know this, cause blue monkeys… well, they're kind of rare. But blue monkeys – and _just_ blue monkeys – know telepathy."

House made it sound like he was revealing a huge secret. Predictably, this made Rachel curious, even if she had no idea what telepathy was.

Watching her as she glanced down at the monkey, he wasn't surprised when she asked, "Who's tepelaphy?"

He rolled his eyes at the question. "_Telepathy_ means you can talk to someone without saying anything."

"I don't get it."

"You don't have to talk to your monkey," he explained slowly. "Just think about what you want to tell it, and it'll know."

Rachel looked at her stuffed animal carefully as though she were considering what he'd told her. Unfortunately, in her estimation, this telepathy thing wasn't real, much to House's dismay.

"That's stupid," she said, judgment lacing her tones.

He sneered. "No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"Most people would kill to have a stuffed animal who could read your mind."

"I don't care," she retorted quickly. "I like talking to Clyde."

Since they were at a stoplight, House could look back at her. "Clyde?"

"My monkey."

"I thought you were going to call it Froggie."

"I am." She sounded annoyed that he would even doubt her. "But sometimes he's also called Clyde. And Ice Cream Sandwich."

There was no time for him to point out that that made no sense. By the time he opened his mouth, she was already blabbering away to her monkey once more. And that point, he just gave up on trying to shut her up.

She was being annoying – _God_, she was being annoying. But he knew a lost cause when he saw it, and trying to get her to be quiet was definitely one.

So once more, he did his best to ignore her. Her chatter slowly becoming little more than background noise, a nuisance really, he focused on the road and drove home without another word.

But he couldn't ignore her for long. Originally, he'd hoped that Cuddy would be back by the time they returned from the store. He'd told himself that, if he could just get through the shopping, she would be there to take over the rest.

She wasn't.

Which meant she was still with _him_.

House could feel the jealousy and anger and distrust roil inside his body. In his mind, he could hear himself think that this shouldn't have been happening. He shouldn't have been the one in charge of Rachel, and Cuddy shouldn't have been with some guy she'd fucked years ago. And yet, he thought bitterly, that was _exactly_ what was happening. All of those things were occurring, right now and beyond his control.

And it pissed him off.

Which was why he knew: he couldn't think about it. Although it was in his nature to dwell, he knew that, if he allowed himself to do that, only bad things could happen. At least one bad thing would happen; he would be tempted to toss Rachel back into the car and drive over to lover boy's mansion and _kill_ him.

Admittedly, it was an insane impulse to have to fight. Especially since he trusted Cuddy completely, he knew that it was stupid to want to hurt this guy.

However, House _also_ knew that John was interested in _his_ girlfriend; she didn't see it, because, like any uninterested woman, she had no idea what the truth was.

But House knew.

He could see right through the "I'm just a nice guy who likes to donate money" act. Most people would have, he thought. Most would have suspected that something else was motivating the man who spent millions of dollars a year for a meeting with Cuddy.

But she didn't see it, and House couldn't help but wonder if her ignorance was of the willful kind. It didn't exactly sound like her, but if you added money into the equation? Yeah. He could see her pretending like there was nothing wrong with John simply because he was the one writing the checks.

And he supposed it was for that very reason that _he_ had to ignore John's obvious attempts to steal his girlfriend.

Scaring off this guy would be satisfying, but it would also probably mean that the gravy train stopped. And when that happened, House knew Cuddy would be mad at _him_ for being the reason the hospital was short however much money it required to keep the clinic running. Of course, she'd also whip out the "You don't trust me" card, but that wouldn't get nearly as much mileage as the "Your behavior nearly destroyed/is going to destroy the hospital" one. At least, that was what history had taught him.

And similarly, history had taught House that it was easiest for _him_ to just avoid Cuddy's transformation into a nagging harpy altogether. Although he could probably dig himself out of that hole should he do something to John, it was just better to work around that situation altogether.

Mind you, that didn't make it _easy_ to ignore what John was doing. It _really_ didn't.

But House was determined to do his best.

In order to do that though, he had to focus on any and every distraction available to him… including Rachel.

That part was truly unfortunate, as she was hardly an interesting distraction. Seriously, looking to her for entertainment was like hoping a bag of rocks would attract his attention.

But what other choice did he have?

Resigned to his fate, he helped her out of her thick winter coat. "You need to take your medicine," he told her.

Sure, they'd barely gotten through the door before he'd announced this. Absolutely, the uninitiated would believe that he could have waited a few minutes before springing the truth on her. However, not being one of the ignorant masses, House knew it would be a fight and it was better to start now.

"No, I don't," she said predictably.

"Sorry." He wasn't. "You do."

He motioned for her to head to the kitchen, but she refused to go.

"No medicine. I already taked it."

House jiggled the plastic bag in his hand. "Not this medicine."

Rachel frowned. "I don't want it."

"Doesn't matter," he told her dismissively. "_Mommy_ and your yeasty bits say you need it."

Invoking Cuddy's name definitely gave Rachel pause. Clearly, in her little mind, if it was something her mother wanted, it was something she should do. Which was precisely why House had mentioned Cuddy at all; he knew it would work.

That said, he couldn't help but feel a little odd saying the words aloud. Contained in what he'd said was the threat: behave or wait until your mother hears about this. And it felt _bizarre_ – both for him to make that threat _and_ for it to actually be one.

But ultimately it worked.

"Fine," Rachel said eventually, pouting.

He knew that he should have relished her capitulation. He should have been happy that she was quietly taking her medicine – like she needed to. And yet…

He felt guilty about manipulating her. Not completely guilty, but… maybe ten percent of him didn't like how the situation had unfolded.

It was hard to articulate why. He wasn't even sure he had a reason. Oh, he knew that he must have had some reason; he just had no idea what it could be. The specifics eluding him, all he knew was that it simply didn't seem right to threaten her, to bandy about Cuddy's name as though she were someone to fear.

But then, none of this was particularly comfortable for him. Not manipulating her, not helping her put cream on places he was better off not seeing, not forcing medicine down her gullet like he cared about her – _none_ of it felt right to him.

Granted, it didn't feel entirely _wrong_ either. Part of him could see that he wasn't doing anything bad; he wasn't doing something that was _actually_ wrong. It just didn't feel _right_.

Whatever that meant.

But if he felt any weirdness at all, Rachel didn't seem to be bothered at all.

He'd just finished forcing the last sip of medicine down her throat when she said, "I'm hungry."

Ignoring the way she wiped her mouth on her monkey, he glanced at the clock. It was actually later than he'd thought it would be; apparently, their trip to the store had taken longer than he'd thought.

"Okay," he said with a curt nod of the head. "I'll make something. Go play."

She didn't move though. Instead she stayed in the kitchen and shadowed every step he took.

Her chin resting on the kitchen counter, she asked him in a singsong voice, "What are you making?"

At that point, he'd only pulled bread over. "Sandwiches."

"What kind?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly, as he opened the fridge. "Depends on what we have."

"Froggie wants a Spaghetti and Jell-O sandwich."

As House rummaged through the drawers, he reminded her, "Pretty sure your monkey said he eats flies and gummy worms."

"Oh."

He happened to catch a glance of her when he turned to put a bag of sliced turkey and jar of jelly on the counter. And he could see that she was completely taken aback by his words. "That's what he said in the car," he pointed out.

"I know," she said snidely. "But… he wants something different today."

"Sorry." He pulled out a knife and a couple plates and began to make sandwiches. "I don't feed monkeys."

"But –"

"You'll just have to share your sandwich with him. Too bad."

To be honest, he expected her to put up a fight then. He thought she'd demand a sandwich for her stupid monkey and for them to then have a fight about it.

Instead though, she changed the topic altogether. "What are you making?" she asked judgmentally.

"I told you. Sandwiches." He smeared a layer of jelly on a slice of the bread.

Rachel stomped her foot in frustration. "What _kind_?"

"Turkey and jelly."

Predictably her response was "Ewwwwwwwwwww."

He rolled his eyes. "It's good."

"No, it's not."

House looked over at her and asked, "Have you ever had one?" She shook her head. "Then you have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh yes I do."

He quickly finished making the sandwich and cut it in half. Strawberry jelly stained the whole grain bread where the knife had gone through, and turkey spilled over the crust in a few places.

All in all, it was an ugly sandwich if he ever saw one. But that wouldn't change the way it tasted.

Knowing that, he held out a half for her to take.

She didn't.

"Taste it."

She shook her head and hugged her monkey. "I don't want to. It's gross."

"You don't know it's gross."

"Yes, I do," she insisted.

"Wanna bet?"

Rachel considered this for a minute. "I don't know."

"You taste it," House told her, laying out the terms. "If you don't like it, I'll make you something else. If you like it, you eat it."

So it wasn't really so much a _bet_ as it was just… a normal process one might have at any meal. But if it got Rachel to take a bite, he'd absolutely make it sound like a bet.

Instantly she reached for the sandwich. "Okay. Fine, but you also have to make a sandwich for Clyde if I don't like it."

"Whatever." He wasn't agreeing to her terms. He _wouldn't_. But he kept his response vague enough that she would at least think he was willing to make her stuffed animal a sandwich. "Take a bite."

She looked down at the half she now held in her hand. She wasn't sure she wanted to try it. It looked weird, and it _was_ weird, and Rachel didn't think there was any way it could be good. Actually, she was convinced it was down right _yucky_.

But she wanted to make sure Ice Cream Sandwich got his lunch, so she guessed she would have to take a bite.

"Go on," House said.

Rachel didn't want to, not really anyway. But did she have a choice? Probably not.

Closing her eyes, she raised the sandwich to her mouth. It was gonna be gross; it was gonna be yucky; it wasn't going to be good, she told herself.

And then she took a bite.

And it was good!

Her eyelids popped open. Chewing eagerly, she said with her mouth full, "I like this."

"No kidding."

That was the thing about kids House hated the most: they were so boringly predictable.

Handing her the rest of the sandwich on a plate, he said simply, "Here."

"This is really good."

"I know." Figuring she would head over to the table to eat, he turned to start making his own lunch. However, she didn't go anywhere. She just stayed _right there_. And he didn't know if it was her overbearing presence or his boredom that made him say it, but he quickly found himself explaining, "My dad used to make these when –"

"You have a dad?"

House slapped the second piece of bread onto the top of his sandwich. "Wasn't hatched out of an egg."

"But I've never met him," she said through her thoroughly stuffed mouth.

"That's cause he's dead."

Rachel frowned. Nervously, she told him, "I'm sorry."

He picked up his sandwich. "I'm not."

For a fraction of a second, he expected her to keep talking about his father, which House supposed was his fault. If he hadn't wanted to have the conversation about it, he shouldn't have brought it up. But it was too late to take the comment back, and all he could do now was quash the discussion as quickly as possible.

Fortunately however, Rachel didn't say anything after that. If he'd been concerned that she'd want to know more, she, in fact, didn't seem to care at all. And frankly? He was absolutely _fine_ with that.

What he was less okay with was Rachel's constant presence.

No matter where he went after lunch, no matter what he did, she was right there behind him. Her footsteps always echoing his, he had to wonder what ever happened to playing alone; the way she kept shadowing him made House question if such a notion had become extinct.

"Don't you want to go play? In _your_ room?" he asked her at one point.

Rachel shook her head, holding her stuffed monkey by its tail. "No."

"Why not?"

"Cause I want to stay with you."

Truth be told, part of House wondered if she just wanted to stick close to him, because he'd gotten her a present today. After all, it _did_ seem like more than a coincidence – that the day she started to enjoy his company was also the day he bought her something.

But then again, there was also something to be said for still hating him and just spending time with him to annoy the crap out of him. It seemed a little unlikely; to be sure, it would – it _was_ – irritating him. However, in this case, in order to piss him off, Rachel would be spending a lot of her time being agitated _herself_. And who would do that?

Well, obviously: a five year old with the I.Q. of a bag of wet hair.

In other words, it was right up Rachel's alley.

Whatever her reason though, House did _not_ want to spend the day with her, much less be her form of entertainment. So as she followed him into the living room, he suggested hurriedly, "Let's watch a movie."

"Okay!"

Thankfully, she was agreeable to that much, he thought. Had she wanted something other than an electronic babysitter, he wouldn't have known what to do.

But that didn't matter, right? What he would or wouldn't have done in other situations… who cared? She was willing to watch a movie, and as he stuffed a random cartoon into the DVD player, he guessed he should have just been happy that she'd welcomed the distraction.

At least he could do other things this way.

As she settled in front of the television, House claimed the couch as his own. Truthfully, he would have preferred to hide in his office. But he wasn't a complete idiot. He knew what would happen if he did that; Rachel wouldn't stay where she was, and the problem of getting away from her would be renewed. And since he wanted to avoid that at all costs, the couch it was.

That wasn't too bad, really. Rachel was quiet. The sofa was comfortable for him to sprawl out over. And there was a stack of medical journals he hadn't read on the coffee table next to him for him to peruse. As Cuddy had been threatening to burn them if he didn't get them _off_ the coffee table, House supposed now was as good a time as any to catch up.

But he'd only gotten through two before he was interrupted.

"What are you reading?" Rachel asked, bouncing on her heels in front of him.

House sighed. "Something you wouldn't understand," he told her dismissively. He didn't look up at her, as he added, "Go finish your movie."

"Tell me." Her small hands tugged on his arm. "Tell me what you're reading."

"Fine. _Pediatric Diabetes._ Go watch your movie."

"I don't like the movie," she whined, standing on her tiptoes and putting all of her weight on him. "It's stupid. The princess just sleeps the whole time."

House turned a page. Disinterested, he explained, "Yeah, I think that's why she's called Sleeping Beauty."

The point was lost on her. "What's your thingy about?"

"Pediatric diabetes." Finally he looked over at her. "If you don't want to watch the movie, why don't you –"

"What's it say?"

Immediately he switched gears. Doubtful he said, "You want to know what my medical journal says." She nodded her head, and he, in turn, shook his. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"No –"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, I do."

He set the journal down on his stomach. "You won't understand what any of it means."

"Yes, I will. I'm not stupid."

"Didn't say you were."

Oh, he thought she was a complete moron. But he hadn't _said_ that.

"I can understand it."

"Really?" House decided to put her to the test. Picking up his journal once more, he quoted the title of the article he'd been reading. "'Continuous subcutaneous insulin infusion vs. multiple daily injections in Swedish children with type 1 diabetes: a systematic review and meta-analysis of randomized control trials.' What's that mean?"

She looked like she wanted to punch him. "Now you're just making words up."

"You caught me." It went without saying that those were all very real words – just as it went without saying that telling Rachel otherwise would upset her.

"So you have to read me a story," she told him, as though that part was obvious.

He set_ Pediatric Diabetes_ to the side. "Excuse me?"

"I catched you lying, so now you have to read to me."

"Since when is that a rule?"

She smiled. "Since I made it up."

Suicide had never seemed more appealing.

Okay, so that wasn't true. There had been other times in his life where offing himself had been so much more enticing. _However_, this moment was giving all of those instances a run for his money. Because, without exaggeration, reading to the kid, playing stay-at-home Daddy… it just had _no_ appeal to him.

_None_.

But clearly, nobody else in this house seemed to care about his feelings – not Cuddy, not Rachel, _nobody_. And so he had no choice but to play ball.

All right, obviously he had a _choice_. He wasn't being kept here against his will or anything like that. But there was no denying that refusing to help with Rachel would mean losing Cuddy, would mean sacrificing the best part of his life. Cuddy would tell him otherwise, of course. She liked to claim that she had never intended him to be a father to her daughter.

Maybe that was true. It probably was, he conceded. But as Cuddy liked to point out every time she asked him to do something, her intentions meant nothing; he was here now, in their lives, and he couldn't push Rachel away entirely.

Still, that didn't mean he was just going to give the spawn what she wanted, no questions asked.

"Let's say I read you a story. You gonna be quiet afterwards?"

Rachel considered the question seriously. "I don't know."

"You better figure it out," he responded in a similar tone. "Cause I'm not gonna read to you if you can't be quiet afterwards."

She seemed to weigh her options, cause she was silent for a moment. But eventually she said, "I can be quiet."

He doubted that was actually possible, but he supposed he had no choice but to give her a shot. "Then go grab a book."

Rachel didn't need to be told twice.

As she scampered away, House sat up on the couch. Tossing his journal back onto the coffee table, he could practically hear himself think that this was _not_ how he wanted to spend his afternoon.

But it was too late to turn back now.

Well, all right, he _did_ consider bailing. But before a plan had formed in his mind, Rachel had returned. Her cheeks pink, she was out of breath. And House could only assume that she'd run, _sprinted_ for the nearest book in sight.

With good reason.

Had she taken any longer, he would have reneged on the deal.

"I got the book," she said excitedly.

He was less amused. "Great." Patting the couch cushion next to him, he motioned for her to join him. In all honesty, the last thing he wanted was for her to hop up on the couch with him, so he could read her a story. And if it sounded like he was fixated on how much he did _not_ like this, it was because he _was_ fixated on how much he did _not_ like this.

"What story?" he asked miserably.

She simply handed him the book.

Immediately, he smirked. "_Everyone Poops_?"

She shrugged.

"Fine," he said, not really caring that the book was about taking a dump.

He started to open the book up, but Rachel stopped him. Her hand touching his, she said unhappily, "You didn't read the title."

House clenched his teeth. "I just said the title."

"Cause you didn't know what the book was." Firmly she pointed out, "It was not part of story time."

"You know what else isn't a part of story time? Homicide. But I'm willing to make an exception."

Rachel had no idea what that was. "I don't care about that thingy."

"But you care about me reading the title out loud? Cause –"

"_Yes_." She nodded her head once for emphasis. "If you don't read it, it doesn't count."

He made a mocking face. "You're kind of a brat, you know that?"

Haughtily she said, "Mommy says I'm very serious about stories."

That much was obvious.

However, he didn't want to focus on that too much. Continuing this conversation would just draw out the moment even more.

And House did _not_ want that.

"All right. _Everyone Poops_." He looked over at Rachel. "Do I need to say who the author is, or can we move past the cover?"

Her answer was to open the book herself.

And there it was.

He didn't think he would have noticed the handwriting on the inside cover under normal circumstances. Sometimes, when he was rummaging through Cuddy's things, he would pay attention to the inscriptions; he was nosy about _her_ things, curious about her in a way that he would never be with Rachel.

Yet his gaze immediately fell upon the inscription in this book. As though his eyes had known it would be there, instantly, he saw in big bright red letters a note for Rachel.

It was a note signed:

_Lawrence Kutner._

_To be continued_


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Notes: Sorry this is so late! Let's just say that "Bombshells" made me hesitant to post this in a hurry. But I hope that it was worth the wait. Thank you to hughsoulingregsmind, Jane Q. Doe, Huddyphoric, althea60, smackedfan454, paroulis, jl1820, dmarchl, Katrina Puffinstuf, red blood, lin12344, Temo, sydneybristow85, ladyyuuki16, IHeartHouseCuddy, Thayy, xxClouds, EllieShelly, newsession, Winnywriter, and MissBates for taking the time to read and review my last chapter. It means a lot to receive that kind of feedback.

_Disclaimer: I'm not Shore and company… obviously._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Sixteen: Cheat**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

John answered the door without a shirt on. Cuddy, holding a gift basket with kosher wine and the cookies she'd made the day before in it, hadn't anticipated _that_ turn of events. And to be honest, the second she saw his muscled, half-naked form, the only thing she could think of was:

Thank God House couldn't see this.

The beefcake jokes would have never stopped. The accusations that John wanted her would have never ended.

Thank _God_ House wasn't here now, she told herself once more.

"Lisa," John said in a friendly manner that was loud enough to pull her from her thoughts. Immediately she forced herself to look away from his abs, which she hadn't even realized she was practically staring at until she heard his voice. "It's good to see you."

She smiled, though she didn't feel the same way. She liked John, of course; he was a nice guy, who might not have done much for her sexually but who had become somewhat of a fixture in her life nonetheless. But at the same time, seeing him always – _always_ – meant she needed his money.

Part of Cuddy realized she didn't need to feel bad about it. After returning from Iraq, John had been more than eager to accept the role of good will ambassador for his uncle's company, and it was quite literally his job to give money to organizations that needed it. And since his family's business had headquarters in New Jersey, it behooved them to donate in the area. It was to _their_ benefit (and not just hers) that they continue to finance the hospital, and she understood that.

_But_ she also realized that her hospital got a lot of its money for reasons that had nothing to do with charity.

She would never agree with House that John simply funded her projects in the hopes that she'd fall in love with him. She would never say _that_. What she would say, however, was that their… friendship left him predisposed to understanding and supporting her causes. And maybe she shouldn't have felt bad about that, but she did.

Even as she recognized that she'd take his money, she still felt guilty about it.

And so it came as no surprise that the smile she offered him never quite reached her eyes.

He, however, didn't know that; in fact, Cuddy doubted he realized just how conflicted he could make her feel.

And she was interested in keeping it that way.

Forcing cheeriness into her voice, she asked, "I'm not too early, am I?"

"Not at all," John said with a grin that practically showed every single one of his white veneers. As he gestured her to come inside, he explained apologetically, "I still like to get some P.T. in every morning."

With a gentle push, he closed the door behind her. "Arranging donations," he explained as he guided her into an expansive study off the left side of the foyer. "Sitting behind a desk… I'm still not used to it."

Cuddy was only half-listening to him. She didn't mean to ignore what he was saying, but the opulence of his… _mansion_ was too distracting not to notice it.

There was marble on all of the floors, gold on all of the fixtures. Slabs of dark wood paneled each of the walls in his office, which made the whole room seem brooding and unfriendly when combined with all of the dark furniture. And though he offered her a seat, she didn't move to sit down on one of the plush leather sofas.

Instead, she watched him grab a t-shirt off of a different couch. As he pulled it over his head, he continued, "All that time in the military, I never expected to be doing what I'm doing now. And I'd like to think I wasn't sitting on my ass all day while my friends are halfway around the world dying still."

His head peeked out of the hole in his shirt. Sandy brown hair slightly askew, he shook his head. As though he were trying to push the thought aside, he closed his eyes and fell silent. And when he spoke once more, he offered simply, "Anyway, I like to work out when I can. I must have run long, but you're not early."

She didn't know what to say in response, so she nodded her head.

John must have sensed her discomfort, because he quickly drew attention to the basket of cookies her hands. "What do you have there?"

"Wine. Cookies," Cuddy supplied… almost too eagerly, she thought. Forcing herself to sound slightly more conversational, she explained, "They're, uh, hamantaschen. It's traditional for Purim. We make them and give them to other people."

"Thank you," he said dutifully, taking the basket out of her hands. The cellophane she'd wrapped around the basket crinkled loudly as he moved to put it on his desk. "I'll enjoy them."

To be honest, she doubted that. Clearly, as he'd demonstrated seconds ago, he took great care of his body. As such, he didn't seem like the kind to indulge in sweets. And even if he _were_, Cuddy was sure that she had somehow botched her grandmother's recipe and baked the worst cookies imaginable, making them inedible for _anyone_.

She kept that thought to herself though. Saying something would only make him feel obligated to tell her that he was sure they would taste fine. Even worse, he might be compelled to _eat_ one of the cookies.

And she didn't want to be around for that. So she stayed quiet to avoid it altogether.

"That's very nice of you," he said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. "But, Lisa… I don't think you came here to give me a gift. As nice as it is, I'm sure you have other things to do on a Sunday."

She looked down at her feet for a fraction of a second. Her initial reaction had been to tear her gaze away from him, but doing that seemed childish. It seemed completely unfitting for her to be unable to meet his eyes and then not five seconds later ask him for money.

Making herself look at him once more, she admitted, "No, I didn't."

"Okay." Once again, he gestured for her to sit. Taking his own seat in an armchair, he told her, "Tell me about it. You didn't say anything on the phone."

Cuddy nodded her head and awkwardly sat on the couch. The leather rumbled beneath her loudly. The cushions so overstuffed, it made her feel as though she were being swallowed whole. "I know."

He threw his hands in the air. "Well… there's no need to be secretive," he said with a smile. "What do you need?"

Truth be told, it struck her as odd. To be in the presence of someone who seemed so kind, so helpful… it was definitely not what she was used to. As much as she loved House, as much as he loved her, he could hardly be considered either of those adjectives. Granted, he was watching Rachel for her now, but how much of a fight had it been to get him to do that much? And even if he occasionally qualified for being useful, being _nice_?

No.

If he were nice, it was always in his own screwed up way. Which Cuddy had come to appreciate, but he was never going to be kind in the way anyone else could recognize.

And that was why it was so weird to be face to face with someone who, for all intents and purposes, was the poster boy for everything socially acceptable and righteous.

But with that in mind, she knew she couldn't let herself be put off by it. Nor could she let herself feel so guilty for exploiting him that she _didn't_ do just that.

"I need a donation," she said firmly.

He nodded his head as though he'd been expecting this.

_That_ made her feel awful.

"How much do you need?"

"I can't tell you that."

He looked at her confused. He obviously didn't understand. "I don't –"

"John," she interrupted in a voice that she forced to sound calm. "I need you to write me a check, and I need it to look like I'm not coming to you at the last minute for a handout."

John drew his lips into a thin line. Obviously contemplating the matter, he didn't say anything at first. He just sat there, probably thinking about how bizarre her insistence on secrecy was.

But in her mind, it made perfect sense. The D.E.A. was convinced Roberts was using the hospital pharmacy to funnel out drugs for one of her top donors. That alone would be more than enough to have the organization looking into the hospital's finances. The additional fact that the top donor, David Howard, was using a percentage of his drug money to finance the hospital just clenched it for her.

Those two premises combined could only mean the D.E.A. would be sniffing for people to convict.

John, obviously, was not a part of that drug ring. _However_, if he were to suddenly donate the precise amount of money she needed, she thought it would look suspicious.

As a friend, she didn't want any of that nonsense to blow back on him. As someone who benefited from his generosity, she definitely didn't want to give him a reason to think she was a bad investment.

He didn't understand that though.

"Lisa, if something's wrong –"

"If I could tell you, I would," she said honestly. "But satisfying your curiosity is probably the worst thing I could do for you right now."

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. "To be honest, I'd feel better if you told me something." When she didn't say anything, he changed tactics. "I can write you a check."

"Thank you."

"That's never a problem, you know that, right?"

From anyone else, it would have been such a pompous statement. From him though, it didn't come across that way at all. If anything, it was meant to be more of a comforting remark, and indeed, it _was_.

"I'll give you what you want," he told her in a friendly manner. "You know I'm always willing to help you. I'm just asking – friend to friend – what's going on."

She smiled sadly. "That's why I'm not telling you."

He seemed reluctant to accept that. He stared at her long and hard, his eyes imploring her for some sort of answer. But when none came, she could see him slowly realize he would never get an answer from her.

"All right," he said finally. "You want to give me a ballpark, or should I just pick a number?"

She glanced away as he stood up. "You need to pick one," she told him, looking back at him.

He shrugged and headed towards the large mahogany desk in the office. Grabbing a scrap of paper, he wrote something down on it. "Is this enough?" he asked, handing it to her.

Instantly Cuddy looked down… and found herself staring at a number with eight figures.

Quickly she swallowed the sigh of relief she felt. Given how unprofessional all of this was, she wanted it to appear otherwise at least. She couldn't make this seem right and outstanding, but she could at least make it _look_ like that, she thought.

"Enough?" he asked once more.

"Yes," she said in a voice that was slightly higher pitched than it should have been.

It was definitely more than enough.

"Good."

"You're too generous, John," she told him out of obligation.

As he headed back to his desk, he shook his head. "I'm not," he disagreed. "Truth is, without your hospital, I wouldn't be alive." Opening one of the drawers, he pulled out a checkbook. "This is really the least I can do for you."

That hardly made her feel better.

In fact, his words made her feel as though she'd been blackmailing him, exploiting his near death experience for cash. And that made her feel _nauseous_.

Standing up, she said shakily, "That's my job. I –"

"And this is mine," he interrupted with a firm voice. "So let me help."

Slowly she walked towards him. She didn't want to seem too eager, even as she slipped the scrap of paper he wrote on into her pocket. As much as she wanted his money and wanted all of this to be over, she knew she had to be careful.

She couldn't seem too desperate. That would just make him question her more.

Yet, emboldened by his words, she couldn't help but tell him, "If that's true… I need you to backdate your check."

John nodded his head. "To when?"

Quickly thinking, she decided it would need to be fairly recent. She couldn't have him backdate a check to a month ago. That would just make people question why she hadn't cashed it before then. On the other hand, it couldn't be too recent, because that too would draw suspicion.

"Last Wednesday, I think," she told him eventually. It was really the only time that would work. In theory, if he'd mailed a check on Wednesday, she wouldn't have gotten it till Friday or Saturday afternoon. And if her office mail hadn't been delivered until after she'd left or if she hadn't given the check to accounting before leaving (both of which were plausible explanations), it would be equally plausible that she wouldn't be able to cash the money until Monday.

In short, dating the check Wednesday would make it look like she _hadn't_ had to beg him for money.

"Done," he said, signing off on the check. "You sure you won't tell me what this is for?" he asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

"It's better for both of us if I don't."

He started to hand her the check, but he paused. "You'd tell me if this was personal, right?"

She looked him in the eyes. "_I_ am_ fine_. The _hospital_ will not be without this money." True, without his donation, she was looking at being _fired_. Maybe the board would hold off until her contract was up for renewal, but this scandal was embarrassing enough that it would eventually reflect on her.

That was undeniable.

However, it was also undeniable that that was _not_ what he had meant. That was not his idea of personal, and she would never imply that the reason she was here fell under that category.

"All right," he conceded finally. "I believe you."

"Thank you."

Quietly he handed her the check.

But oddly enough, she immediately felt her relief stifle itself. She'd originally planned to give him what he seemed to need – a certain amount of gratitude in her reaction once she had the check in her possession. Yet when it came time to perform, in the actual moment, she found herself distracted.

By how close he was to her.

He'd shifted around the desk to hand her the check, and that seemed fine; he was trying to give her the check, after all. As his fingers brushed against hers, however, she realized just how near he was now.

He was _so_ close.

_Too_ close.

His frame seemed to loom over her. The scent of his cologne made her eyes water, his body heat so palpable that she felt herself beginning to sweat. And though he wasn't doing anything wrong, even though he was just standing there, something did _not_ feel right.

Cuddy cautiously began to step back.

Truth be told, she didn't understand why she wanted to put distance between them. She didn't think he would _hurt_ her or anything like that. More importantly, rationally, she knew he _wouldn't_ do that.

But she moved away from him anyway.

"You have no idea how much this means," she said, trying to replace the awkwardness in the air with her words. She tried to use placing the check into her purse as a cover for what she was doing, but she wasn't sure it worked.

On the other hand, she _was_ sure he wasn't really hearing anything she said. He was listening, she thought, but he wasn't exactly paying attention to what she was saying. Because even as she placed the money in her purse, she could hear (though her back was turned) him following. "I don't know where the hospital would be without…."

She didn't get a chance to finish what she was saying.

She could have. He wasn't doing anything so Cuddy guessed she could have kept talking. But she could feel him right behind her, and that fact was both distracting and irritating enough to make her forget everything she wanted to say.

"I'm sure you would have found the money elsewhere," John said.

He was so conversational about it. That was what struck her the most: he just chatted away, as though he weren't intentionally getting close to her.

And though part of her knew it wasn't right to object to _anything_ he was doing with that check in her possession, she couldn't let this continue.

"John." She shook her head a little. She hadn't wanted to take offense, but she had to say something.

Turning around, Cuddy prepared herself to tell him to back off.

But she never got the chance to rebuff his advances.

She found herself too busy kissing him to do that.

At first, she didn't understand what was going on. All she'd been doing was turning around. All she'd been thinking about was what she needed to say to get him to move away from her.

She had _not_ been expecting a kiss.

So when she found herself pressed against his eager mouth, at the very beginning, she didn't get it. Which sounded incredibly dumb, yes, but it was the truth. She was too awash with confusion to immediately push him away.

But as the seconds ticked on, as he kept kissing her, realization began to set in.

He was _kissing_ her.

_John_ – not House – had his lips on hers. _John_ – not _House_ – was the one whose hands were in her hair as he pulled her closer. It was John's tongue in her mouth, John's stubble against her chin.

And though time seemed to slow to a crawl, she could tell by his reaction that she pushed him away very quickly. Her hands on his chest, she shoved him _hard_.

Instantly he stumbled back. His body involuntarily taking a few steps back, she knew she'd caught him by surprise; he was a big man, muscular and tall. If she were able to push him away at all, it was because he clearly hadn't expected her to fight him.

Seeing that she had, he instantly apologized. Even before his body had stopped moving, he was apologizing. "I'm sorry. Lisa. I'm so sorry."

She was unmoved. Her entire body tensing, she asked, "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, glancing away from her.

It was funny though. For a fraction of a second, she caught sight of the emotions playing on his face. He did not seem sorry to her. He just looked… _disappointed_.

"I am _with_ someone," she said furiously.

"I know." His lips pursed together as though he had swallowed something sour.

But if she was supposed to care about how _he_ felt right now, she _didn't_. Though she tried hard to keep her calm, she was livid. His feelings didn't matter to her then. "You can't just –"

"No, I know," he interrupted. The words came out hastily, in agitation. Clearly he didn't like her being upset.

She didn't care.

"I'm sorry," she said coldly, her arms folding across her chest. "You're the one who kissed me," she pointed out. "_You_ don't get to be the one who's upset." Cuddy didn't let that thought linger for long.

Perhaps for impact, she should have. But anger and confusion pushed thoughts through the synapses of her mind too fast for her to stop talking. "Why would you do that? You _know_ I have a boyfriend."

He wagged a finger in objection. "No, you have _House_."

"He saved your life."

John nodded his head. "Yeah. He's a great doctor. Pretty terrible person, if you ask me."

She bit back the reminder that she hadn't, in fact, asked for his opinion. Instead she pointed out, "You don't know him."

"You think?" But it was more of a rhetorical question than anything else, because his voice was filled with conviction when he spoke. "I know that he is rude and costs you millions of dollars." He looked at her intently. "I know that he talks to your staff about when he has _sex_ with you."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "He's not serious." It sounded ridiculous. Even to her own ears, her words sounded incredibly dumb, but it was a fact: when he did those things, it was not out of a personal disrespect for her. "I know the impression he gives," she conceded. "But _I'm_ the one who lives with him. I know far more about him than you will _ever_."

He seemed to ignore that last part. Instead, he asked in a way that seemed almost challenging, "You live with him, huh?"

"Yes." She didn't really understand the question, but she was willing to go with it.

"Really?"

"I'm pretty sure about that, yeah."

His eyes narrowed on her. "You know he still keeps his apartment?"

Once more, her first reaction was confusion. Normally she was much better at thinking on her feet, but with this… she was so surprised by his behavior. Honestly, it _shocked_ her to see John behaving this way.

She had trusted him.

Perhaps part of her had always known House was right: John wanted her. However, she'd never considered the possibility that he would act on it while she was with House. It was idiotic to her now, but before John had kissed her, she had always believed that he would respect her.

The fact that he _clearly_ did not was hard to digest. That he also seemed ready to make a point just made her feel completely out of her league.

And without any clue as to where this was head, she could only shake her head a little. "What?"

"You said he's living with you," John said carefully, his voice low. "He's _not_. He still has his apartment." She still didn't understand, leaving him completely in the clear to tell her, "You think he loves you, but… he doesn't."

The way he spoke, she could tell that he was trying his best to be… _kind_? It was absolutely out of the question for _her_ that he could actually _be_ nice while saying those things. But looking at him, listening to him, she could see that he was doing his best to seem reasonable, polite, _helpful_. As though he were telling her something she needed to hear, he was acting like it was his duty to get her to see things his way.

"He lives with you, but he's kept his house. You say he loves you, but it's been how long now?" He didn't give her a chance to answer before he continued. "And he won't marry you? He makes you work and watch over him like he's a child? That's love?"

Instantly, she knew that he wasn't asking rhetorical questions.

He wanted answers.

And she would give them.

Of course, she didn't want to. Naturally, her first instinct was to shut the line of conversation down all together. After all, it wasn't like he had a right to know why she hadn't married House or why she continued to work. That wasn't something he _deserved_ to know.

No matter how much he acted to the contrary.

However, she understood that she would have to give into his entitled curiosity. If she said nothing, John would assume he'd been right. If she angrily denied without explanation, again, he would believe he was correct. And if she were to let him believe that…

He would never back down.

At that thought, she had to wonder how they got to this point. Was she really being forced to defend her relationship? Were they really _there_ in this conversation? She realized that they were, but it still felt foreign and awful.

Sighing, she said as calmly as she could, "Sit down."

He didn't move.

So she elaborated. "Since you've brought this up, I'm willing to talk about it. But this isn't going to be a quick conversation," she said knowingly. "So let's have a seat." She encouraged his behavior by sitting back down on the couch once more.

Thankfully, he joined her. And though he tried to suppress a triumphant smile, he wasn't all that successful.

Cuddy ignored that though.

Licking her lips, she asked tentatively, "What have you heard about my daughter?"

"Rachel?" She nodded her head. Inwardly she was thinking that he damn well knew her daughter's name. He was acting somewhat confused, but in her mind, if he knew that House still had his apartment, John had to know other things about her life. But he wouldn't admit to that outright, it seemed. And so it wasn't surprising that his answer was cautious. "I've heard things," he said with a casual wave of his hand. "She's… what, four?"

"Five," Cuddy automatically corrected.

"Five." He smiled warmly. "Right. Obviously I know that now." She didn't react to his attempt at humor, so he was quick to keep talking. "I think once you told me she was diabetic? But I don't really know much about her."

She was _sure_ he was lying. She could feel it in her bones that he knew much more than he was saying. And why wouldn't he? He had access to the most expensive private detectives to investigate her life if that were what he wanted. Hell, he probably didn't even need detectives. He had enough money that he could bribe just about anyone – including her own employees – to give him whatever information he wanted. And knowing that, she thought it was unlikely that he didn't know much about her daughter.

Still, Cuddy knew it would be of no use to bring up that point. Whether he'd _stalked_ her or not, the important part was to make him realize that he had _no_ chance with her.

Choosing to focus on that, she made herself remain calm.

"When Rachel was born, her mother thought she was dead," Cuddy explained slowly, despite easily recalling that series of events in her mind. "And she… left her in an abandoned house."

He was horrified when he said, "That's awful."

She shook her head a little. As bad as it sounded, she had spent time with Natalie. She had seen how scared and alone and _young_ she had been, and it was hard to resent her because of that. Which was what Cuddy told John. "She was a child herself. She –"

"I don't know. If you're old enough to have sex…." The idea that Natalie should have known better was one he did not speak, but then he didn't need to. His point was obvious.

"I understand what you're saying." Really she did. "But when you're a young girl and you've kept your pregnancy a secret and you have no idea what giving birth is like… you don't always do what makes sense." Shrugging the point off, she decided it would be best to redirect the conversation. Without giving him a chance to respond, she told him, "Anyway, she didn't think Rachel was breathing. She thought she was dead, so she left Rachel in that abandoned house."

John remained visibly appalled but only asked, "Do you know what happened to her afterwards?"

"I have an idea," Cuddy said with a nod. After all, she _had_ been the one to find her daughter. "But I don't know how long she was alone before someone found her. We had an idea of her physical problems at the _time_, but no one really knew how she would develop later in life."

It didn't surprise her that he felt the need to console her. When it came to her daughter, people seemed eager to both comfort and condemn. Neither reaction surprised her now.

But that didn't mean she appreciated one of his hands covering her knee or the way he sympathetically told her, "I'm so sorry to hear that. So she is diabetic then?"

Unceremoniously she pushed his hand off of her. She didn't want him to touch her.

Yet her voice remained calm as she recalled the sequence of events in Rachel's deteriorating health. "When she was a little over thirty-two months, she was diagnosed with hypothyroidism after she kept complaining that she was cold and it was July. Six months after that, she was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Seven months ago, she nearly died from her first asthma attack."

She looked away from him at that moment. It was hardly _easy_ to retell this story, which she wished with her entire being was untrue. It wasn't like talking about all the ways her daughter could have died or all the reasons why she _might_ die was something she wanted to do… especially with someone like John, someone whom she no longer trusted.

But more than anything, she hated seeing the pity in his eyes.

Admittedly that sounded backwards. It shouldn't have been his reaction that bothered her at the moment. But it was. Because there was something about knowing how awful someone _else_ found this situation that just seemed to make it worse for _her_. And the last thing she wanted was to be distracted by self-pity and regret – not when doing so would let him believe he could break up her family in order to date her.

"I had no idea," John said gently, his voice warm and soft and the complete opposite of how she felt about him.

Her gaze snapping back to meet his eyes, she made herself continue. "Every day, I leave my house knowing that something might happen." She swallowed hard. "Most parents worry about cars, the flu, perverts. I get to worry about that and the possibility that my daughter's blood sugar will suddenly rise or fall or that her airway will close and nobody will do anything until it's too late."

She ignored the innate panic that always seemed to come with admitting out loud: Rachel could die at any moment. Cuddy felt the emotion rumbling within her in hot, frenetic waves. But she refused to let that show, much less give into the feeling.

Instead, she watched John's face. She hated seeing the sympathy in his gaze. She really did. But it was better, in her mind, to pay attention to him than to allow herself any time to consider the feelings within her.

"I'm really sorry, Lisa," he told her, reaching out to her again. This time, thankfully, he didn't touch her; he simply placed his hand palm side up on the couch cushion between them.

She didn't take his hand.

"Do you know who's watching her now while I'm here?" She didn't give him a chance to answer. Her voice firm, she said, "_House_."

His lips formed into an o shape, but no sound came out. He was too shocked, it seemed, to respond.

"I'm not married to him?" She laughed humorlessly. "I trust him with my daughter's _life_."

He had an answer for that. "Of course you do. He's a good doctor."

"That's not why I'm with him," she said, dismayed by the implication he was making. "He's a great doctor, yes. There's no one I would trust more _professionally, _yes." She nodded her head for emphasis. "But more than that, he's the person I _want_ to have with me doing this. _House_ is the one I trust to help me."

John actually bristled at that.

"I get," she told him forcefully, feeling her cheeks turn pink with frustration. "That my relationship doesn't make sense to you, that it doesn't seem right to you." Cuddy shrugged. "I don't care. We're not married, because I don't want to be married. I _work_, because I _love_ my job. He keeps his apartment in case one of us gets sick, so we can protect _Rachel_ from contracting whatever illness he has or I have at that moment."

She could feel herself beginning to glare at him. "I'm with him, because I _want _to be. And he has _many_ flaws, but he's _never_ assumed as you have that I'm so stupid as to not be aware of what comes with dating him."

He looked at her completely taken aback. "That's not what I –"

"I don't care," she interrupted dismissively. "I don't need to know what you intended. All you need to know is that I don't want to be with you. And regardless of what happens between me and House, I won't ever want to be with you."

The words came out cruelly, her lips contorting into a judging sneer. If she'd originally wanted to be as nice about it as possible, she had surely missed the mark, because there was no denying how cold she was.

He looked too crushed for her to _not_ know that.

But Cuddy didn't care.

If he was going to choose to grab and kiss her, then she was going to respond with as much thoughtlessness and selfishness as he had.

And she had, she recognized. She had said everything she'd needed to say, and now there was no point in waiting around for him to disagree.

Standing up, she prepared to leave.

But she'd barely taken a step before John spoke up. "You're taking the money."

She spun around to face him once more. He was still seated on the couch. And although he should have been defeated, she could see a small trace of hope in his features.

"You're taking the money," he repeated. "Since I don't want to insult your intelligence," he said with a sneer of his own. "Surely by now you've realized why I've been writing you checks."

In the back of her mind, she heard herself say that House had been right all along.

Unfortunately.

Yet she refused to acknowledge that out loud.

"If you're taking my money," John told her pointedly. "You're accepting the gesture. You're okay with me wanting you."

"I need it," she said firmly. "So yeah, I'm going to take it."

He stood up. "Cause you couldn't find the money elsewhere?" He chuckled at the idea. "Let's be honest: we both know you could go to anyone you wanted and get a couple million. You're taking my money –"

"Because it's easy."

"Because you don't care that I like you," he insisted. "Because maybe _deep down_, part of you _likes_ the attention. Part of you _wants_ –"

"You're convenient, John. Nothing more." Pursing her lips together, Cuddy capitulated. "If you want to believe that I want you, despite what I've been telling you, fine. I can't stop you. I'll take your money each and every time."

Calmly, she added, "And you'll get nothing in return."

Before he could disagree, she decided it was time to end the conversation. "I'll show myself out."

She didn't give him a chance to say anything else. As she walked away, she could hear him try to call her back. But she had said what she'd needed to. And whatever he wanted to tell her was something she didn't need to listen to. So when he said her name, her response came in the form of her closing his front door behind her.

It was only when she'd been driving for ten minutes that the enormity of what had happened hit her. Instantly pulling off onto the shoulder of the road, she felt the words come up from through her like vomit.

He'd _kissed_ her.

_She'd_ kissed someone other than House, other than the person she was in a relationship with.

She hadn't wanted to, but she'd _cheated_ on him.

And with that realization came actual vomit.

Her hand scrambling to open her car door in time, she barely made it. Turning her head as quickly as she could, she threw up onto the deserted, snow-covered road.

_To be continued_


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who has read and especially to the wonderful readers who take the time to review: RachelMBondin, Help, Josam, House Ever, Katrina Puffinstuf, Mon Fogel -former 'Fogendau, Jane Q. Doe, PrettyInPink9787, jl1820, paroulis, dmarchl, Huddyphoric, oc7ober, TrudyGill23, LilahKat, red blood, wrytingtyme, MissBates, HouseBroken, xxClouds, IHeartHouseCuddy, AdieAngel, lin12344, EllieShelly, and secretsunion. I appreciate all of the feedback you've given me. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

_Disclaimer: I don't own the show. _

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Seventeen: The Dickmatization of Lisa Cuddy**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

Selfishly time pushed onward, seconds funneling into multiple minutes of silence. House would have liked to believe that, upon him seeing Kutner's name, everything stopped. But it was clear that it did not.

Rachel squirmed impatiently on the couch beside him. A clock Cuddy had received decades ago from her great uncle ticked at uneven intervals on the fireplace hearth. A snowplow barreled noisily down the street outside as more snow and ice fell from the sky. Everything should have stopped, but in reality, they simply continued unimpeded.

Yet House hardly noticed.

He was aware of what was going on around him, yes. But actually paying attention to it? No, he couldn't say he was doing that. He _wouldn't_, because he was far too focused on the name in front of him.

Really, he thought he should have known this was coming. Of all the people he knew who would give kids books about taking a dump, Kutner would have been at the top of that list. Actually, Kutner might have been the _only_ person on that list. Either way though, it all amounted to the same undeniable fact: House should have seen this coming.

But he hadn't. And maybe it was just the shock making him think this, but he couldn't help but feel as though his surprise didn't matter all that much. Perhaps he should have known this was going to happen; however, it didn't matter in the end. Whether he'd known or not, this moment would still make him feel just as off balance and stricken and _repulsed_.

The emotions cut too deeply to allow for any other reaction.

There was no avoiding it, no suppressing it. Pride demanded that he continue on with the story he'd set out to tell; Rachel pressed her hands impatiently on the book in his grasp as if to guide him to the set of behavior she wanted from him. He absolutely could not do that though. No matter how much he would have liked to – and what the hell did it say about him that he _wanted_ to read to Rachel right now? – he was helpless against the onslaught of painful memory.

It came at him all of a sudden, the emotions he'd felt then. Thanks to his insistence on discovering "the truth," it was hard now to recall specifics of that time around Kutner's death. The precise words he'd said, the patients he'd treated – all of that had faded in his mind. Gone were the details he'd agonized over while searching for an explanation. With the exception of a red skirt clinging to Cuddy's hips, browning blood drying on hard wood, and a picture of Kutner House had found, little about those weeks seemed clear to him these days.

And maybe that wasn't surprising. Maybe when you reached a certain point in your life, happy or content enough with the direction it had taken anyway, you stopped looking back and obsessing over all the things that had gone wrong. But he was pretty sure that wasn't the case. Because while that might have been true for an isolated incident of tragedy, Kutner's death had been anything but.

That event had bled into the other areas of House's life.

It had driven him insane.

And seeing Kutner's name in red ink now was a reminder of all of that.

The confusion his death had created.

The desperate search for an answer.

The realization that none would ever come.

The madness that had followed, that House had been unable to avoid, unable to forget.

_That_ came at him with frightening clarity.

And though Rachel whined, "Start reading the story," he couldn't. She was even using that high-pitched screech she usually used when she wanted something to be done immediately – a sound he normally _hated_. But today it had no effect on him; he barely even heard her.

Blinking slowly he swore he could see Kutner's name even behind his closed eyelids. And at that moment, House was sure he would never escape that part of his life. No matter how much time passed, no matter how happy he was or tried to be, this would never leave him alone. He would never be free.

As though his body rebelled against the idea, he found himself shoving the book onto Rachel's lap.

"No!" she screamed as he stood up. "You say you would read! You promised!" He heard the pages of the book flapping about as she threw it at him. The book hit him in the middle of his back before falling to the ground. "You lie! You lie! I hate you!"

She was shrieking as loudly as she could, doing everything she could think of to get his attention. But he didn't look back at her as he slipped down the hallway.

In the back of his mind, House recognized that this moment would set them back. Whatever headway they'd been making in terms of having a… _relationship_, this instant had undone all of it. And though that wasn't exactly what he wanted, he recognized that there was no avoiding it. The only way to do that was to turn right back around, apologize, and start reading to her.

But he couldn't do that.

Even if he'd wanted to, his body refused to behave. And instead of going back to Rachel, he found himself retreating in the hall bathroom.

At that point he didn't doubt that Rachel would stay away. She'd rather throw a fit than follow _him_. But he locked the door behind him nevertheless. He didn't want her barging in on him. Again, he doubted that she would even attempt to do so. Yet he felt relief course through his body when he heard the latch lock the door shut.

Alone at last, he thought with bitterness.

As he moved away from the door, he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked awful.

His eyes were enlarged, wild with intense fear and surprise. He seemed older then, every age-weary line prominent and impossible to miss. And truth be told, it shocked him. He hadn't expected to see that. All of the emotions he'd been feeling on display – no, he hadn't anticipated _that_. But there it was: terror and disbelief for all to see.

Immediately he looked down. At least he wouldn't be able to see his reflection in the porcelain sink.

Just thinking that though made him feel pathetic, ridiculous. He recognized that he'd been largely powerless to stop the emotions that had driven him to this point. He couldn't and _wouldn't_ act as though he'd been able to control his reaction to seeing Kutner's name.

He hadn't been.

However, as House got further away from that initial moment of surprise, the more absurd his reaction felt. So he hadn't expected to see Kutner's name; so it had shocked him and forced him to confront all sorts of painful truths he tried to ignore. Was he really going to hide in Cuddy's bathroom like a dumb ass? That was _really_ going to be how he handled this?

He exhaled loudly, a chuckle getting mixed in the rush of air. He was hardly over what had just happened, but realizing how _silly_ all of it was helped calm him. He didn't understand why that was particularly. Perhaps the self-deprecation simply replaced some of the frenetic anxiety that had been controlling him.

But whatever the reason, House let himself relish in the feeling. It was, after all, better to consider yourself foolish than on the precipice of losing your mind. So he gave himself permission to berate his own behavior mentally.

And doing that was hardly difficult. It was easy to see the idiocy of his behavior. He was hiding in a _bathroom_. Because _Everybody Poops_ had taken him by surprise.

A book about _shitting_ had put him in this position.

At that thought, he found himself laughing earnestly.

This entire weekend had been strange, but this moment definitely seemed odder than the rest. And _that_ was certainly saying something. He'd thought – assumed really – that the lowest point would have been Rachel walking in on Cuddy blowing him.

But no!

That had ended up being just one instant in a quick succession of bad moments. In the back of his mind, at that point, he felt there was a quip to be made about Cuddy deep throating him being the tip of the iceberg. But he couldn't get the wording right in his head, so he simply let the matter go. He probably would have figured out what he wanted to say _eventually_, but that was a minor point, the main one being that this weekend had been so screwed up.

_So_ screwed up.

(He felt the need to repeat that part for emphasis.)

He'd grabbed Rachel and hurt her. He'd gotten into more petty fights with Cuddy than he could count and had sex with her at least twice as much. He'd foolishly believed she was trying to get pregnant and had to listen to Rachel confess that she really did care about him. And after that… he'd hurt Cuddy _and_ Rachel in return.

He'd bitten Cuddy, which was nothing compared to the fact that he'd said she was willing to be treated like a whore. For hours now, he hadn't felt all that guilty about the second part. But now that he'd screwed things up with Rachel _again_, he couldn't help but regret his earlier accusations.

There was no denying that he was _right_. That _dick_ gave her money, because he thought it would eventually lead to her falling in love with him. And she was too smart to refuse cash that came without professional concessions on her part. However, House thought he shouldn't have gone down that road. He might have hated that relationship, but he shouldn't have said anything.

Honestly, doing that had been one of the dumber things he'd done this weekend. He should have known from the start that any condemnation would be ignored or denounced. Any attempt at keeping her away from John Kelley would just make her stubbornly push ahead with her plan. In mentioning his objections, the only thing House would accomplish was pissing her off. It was the only thing he _had_ accomplished.

He'd said those things, and she'd left angrily with those words in her head. And he'd done his best to pretend like it didn't matter, like he hadn't said anything that awful. But he knew he had.

Or rather, he knew that what he'd said would only make it harder for him to make _this_ debacle up to her.

Oh yeah. She'd be pissed about this. She'd give him that look like, "Why can't you spend any time with Rachel without making things worse?" And as always, he would have no answer to that unspoken question.

Under the best of circumstances, perhaps she would have been willing to brush his ineptitude off. Maybe she would have been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. After this morning though? Yeah, he doubted she was going to be that forgiving.

Well, all right, she'd probably _forgive_. But in order to get her there, he'd have to grovel like his life depended on it. He'd have to make all sorts of promises and concessions. Clinic duty, babysitting, dinners with her mother – he'd be saying yes to all of it, and he would _still_ hear about the time he'd freaked out over a book and upset Rachel long after the fact. Cuddy was too much of a manipulative bitch to let it go that easily.

Which normally he thought was kind of hot; a girlfriend who liked to play as roughly as he did, what wasn't to like about that? There was nothing to despise – not under normal circumstances anyway. But when he'd done something wrong, that part of her personality never made things easier. He doubted it would any different for him now.

But it was right as he thought that that he realized he would soon learn just how true that was. Because it was at that moment that he heard the garage door begin to open, and he knew: Cuddy was home.

At first he thought (or more like hoped) that he was simply hearing things. Surely her timing couldn't be _that_ good_._ Surely it would be more believable for the noise to be a snowplow moving through the streets again. On the other hand, given his luck, it was probably more likely at this point for Cuddy to be home. And after listening for a few seconds, he could tell that she was. The sound was too quiet, too short to be a plow.

Unfortunately.

Of course, it would have been moronic to think he would _never_ have to face her. It went without saying that he knew she would have come back eventually and he would be forced to explain himself. He'd simply hoped he'd have time to come up with some sort of plan.

Apparently though, he wouldn't.

Realizing that, House knew he needed to create a plan of action quickly. There wouldn't be enough time to smooth things over with Rachel. Shutting her up would be next to impossible, so that was out. And if he couldn't make her happy or keep her quiet, he guessed the only thing to do was to minimize the damage. If Rachel was going to say something no matter what, what other choice did he really have?

He couldn't avoid the problem, couldn't deny that there'd been one. So all he could do was state upfront that he'd screwed up. However, if he were going to do that, he immediately understood he needed to get to Cuddy first. It would be easier to control her reaction that way. If she saw Rachel screaming and [at this point, probably] crying, it would be that much harder for him to convince Cuddy of anything. She'd take one look at the kid and cease to listen to whatever explanation he had.

Thanks to his behavior earlier, there would be no benefit of the doubt, no attempt at hearing his side of things. Chances were, she was pissed already, and she'd just use this incident as a reason to yell at him.

So he needed to get to her first, he realized. She'd be mad no matter what, but if he beat Rachel to her, then she would at least be forced to hear him out.

Obviously though, in order to do that, he would have to move _now_. If he waited any longer, he would be too late.

As he pulled open the bathroom door, he realized that he had no idea what he wanted to say. He knew what he had to do – just not exactly how to explain what had happened. But again, if he got to her first, his explanation and subsequent apology wouldn't need to be perfect. In that case, he could make as many mistakes with his delivery as possible, and as long as he came across as sincere, he'd be fine. But again: he needed to get there first.

And for that, for perhaps the first time that day, he had luck on his side. Or rather, he had geography on his side.

From his perspective, chances were, Rachel hadn't heard the garage door open. She was too busy throwing a fit (which he could hear through the bathroom door) to notice. But even if she had, thanks to the way the house had been designed, he was closer to the garage anyway.

Cuddy had always lamented that part of the layout, that the door from the house to the garage was awkwardly placed in the hallway. At this particular moment though, he couldn't help but be grateful for poor design. Because it meant that, even if Rachel had heard something, he'd still get there sooner. And since that was the whole point – to get there first – he was almost willing to forgive himself for hiding in the bathroom.

Yet, if the goal had been to confess to an angry Cuddy, he quickly realized things weren't going to go as planned.

As he opened the door that connected the hall to the garage, he could immediately see something wasn't right.

Cuddy was just sitting there.

She'd had plenty of time to park the car and get out, but she hadn't. She hadn't even turned the car off. And maybe that wouldn't be so odd if she were rummaging around the car for something she wanted; if she were _doing_ something, _anything_, maybe that would all seem normal.

But as House quietly shut the door behind him, he noticed that she wasn't doing any of that. She wasn't looking for something; she wasn't in the process of turning the car off and getting out. She was just sitting there. As though she didn't even realize she was home, she sat in the car with her gaze straight ahead.

In fact, he doubted she even knew he was there until he tapped lightly on the window next to her.

Cuddy blinked in surprise, but she was slow to turn and face him.

Driving home, she'd known she would have to tell him what had happened. But every time she tried to think of the wording, every time she considered her explanation, she felt sick to her stomach. Her muscles would clench tightly; her throat would constrict, and though blood was surely getting to her brain, she would become dizzy. And since she'd still had to stop at the drycleaners and get home, she'd forced herself _not_ to think about what had happened. She'd just paid attention to what was ahead of her – literally.

Now though, he was standing right by the car. As though he already knew what had happened, he stood there, waiting for an explanation.

And she had none to give.

At that thought, he knocked again. This time though he was a little more persistent, louder.

She didn't want to open the door. She didn't want to talk to him, confess what she had done.

But keeping it from him was _not_ an option.

As sick as all of this made her feel, she had to tell him the truth. Keeping it from him would be wrong; it would make her feel even sicker than she already did. And if she could lie to his face, then it would be as though she had wanted John to kiss her.

It would make her complicit in what he had done.

Just the idea of that was enough to force her to open the door. Her fingers shook as she reached for the handle; she didn't push it open very far, her resolve not that strong. But it was more than enough of an opening for House.

Quickly he pushed the door to the side, so he could get a better view of Cuddy. He wasn't sure what was wrong; there weren't any immediate signs of an accident or anything like that. Yet he could tell that things weren't as they should have been.

"Cuddy?" he asked tentatively. He could tell that she had heard him, but she made no move to respond. She just sat there.

He repeated her name. "Cuddy." The word came out louder this time with more assertion. But it didn't seem to have any effect on her.

Not that he really expected it to, he realized. She could clearly hear him. The problem was not in his estimation the fact that his voice hadn't been loud enough before. So he guessed there hadn't been a reason to say her name again. Having done it anyway, however, he felt even more troubled by her current silence.

Again, he hadn't expected her to suddenly snap out of whatever mood she was in. He'd figured she wouldn't; whatever was bothering her, he knew, wouldn't suddenly disappear. But acknowledging and expecting that didn't make it any better to experience.

If anything, seeing that suspicion played out just made him feel even less at ease. Right as he was, it didn't feel like a victory.

He didn't feel _good_ when he quietly ducked his head into the car to turn it off. He was simply concerned, disturbed by her behavior.

"Hey," he said gently, pulling the keys out of the ignition. Still she said nothing, but he could see her body shift slightly. It was at least something something.

When he went to undo her seatbelt, he asked her, "You gonna get out?"

She blinked as the clicking sound of the seatbelt reached her ears. In her silence, the noise seemed deafening, and she knew she couldn't afford to be quiet any longer. She might have wanted to, but now was the time to confess; that much was clear to her.

"Yeah," she rasped after some time.

House motioned to help her out of the car. His fingers carefully guided the seatbelt away from her before reaching for her hands. But she didn't take hold of him. She felt like she didn't know how.

Immediately hating how stupid that sounded, she corrected herself: she felt like… reaching for him would be wrong. Although she doubted he would ever remember this moment – _especially_ after she told him the truth – Cuddy didn't feel right depending on him now.

That just seemed to frustrate him though.

"Here's the thing," he told her, as he pulled his own body out of the car. "Generally getting out of the car means moving your body. And while I'm sure it's hard to move an ass _that_ big without some sort of hydraulics –"

A cry she'd been trying to stifle slipped between her lips. Too loud to be a whimper, too showy for her to look composed, it immediately shut him up. The sentence left hanging in the air, he suddenly seemed more focused on her.

Oh, Cuddy realized he'd been intensely interested in her behavior before. She'd heard the tentativeness in his voice when he spoke to her. She'd seen the way he'd ducked into the car and gently undid her seatbelt. And since neither caution nor subtlety were House's strong suits, she'd known that he was only acting that way because of _her_ behavior. So she was aware that he had, from almost the beginning, been curious about her.

But with that one sound escaping her throat, she'd single handedly increased that curiosity exponentially. And it wasn't surprising that he responded to her quickly by insistently asking, "What happened?"

"I did something," she said in a rush of words. "_Awful_."

The slightest hint of a confession made her body thrum with nervous energy. She could feel the muscles in her begin to shake. The back of her throat burned with bile, and she found herself shifting her body out of the car to satisfy the energy inside her.

When she'd managed to swing her legs out, he asked, "You gonna tell me what happened?"

He wasn't being accusatory. It felt that way, but rationally Cuddy could tell that he was simply asking the question.

"Okay," he said with impatience. Apparently she hadn't answered him quickly enough. "All right, let me guess." His nose crinkled with concentration.

"I kissed John Kelley," she admitted, blurting the words out as fast as she knew how. In the back of her mind, she understood that saying it in a rush wouldn't make it any easier for House to hear. But she figured that it _would_ help _her_ confess to get through it with as little hesitation as possible.

And yet… doing things that way, she realized, was hardly a good idea. Because as soon as she'd spoken the words, she could see that what she'd said hadn't really been a reflection of what had happened. She'd made it sound like she'd _chosen_ to kiss him.

"I mean," she quickly corrected. "He kissed me."

Her stomach clenched painfully at the admittance; the air in her lungs seemed to burn with each inhale, and she didn't even realize she was teary-eyed until she felt a few slipping down the apple of her cheek.

Instantly she wanted to take it all back. As soon as the words had come out of her mouth, she wanted to say none of it had happened. If it was hurting her already to have spoken that much, how would she feel when House finally realized what she was saying?

Unbidden, her gaze cast upward at him. She didn't want to know what he was thinking. She _really_ didn't. But she had to see what he looked like, had to gage his reaction – even if it pained her to do so.

Looking at him though, Cuddy didn't think he seemed angry. Maybe that was wishful thinking, but to her, he just appeared… confused.

And it was that appearance that turned out to be a reality when he cocked his head to the side and asked, "Which is it?" She must have looked equally lost, because he quickly explained, "You said you kissed him. Then you said he kissed you. Which is it?"

There was no time for hesitation. Having to say the words again wasn't exactly something she wanted to do, but pausing would only make him suspicious.

"He kissed me," she told him, her voice breaking as she repeated herself.

House wasn't sure how to react to what he was hearing. His instinct was to believe she was screwing around with him. It would be what he deserved after the things he'd said that morning. But just one look at her said that that was foolish thinking at best. She clearly meant every word she was saying.

Someone else had kissed her.

Someone had kissed _his girlfriend_.

The described act slowly seeping into his mind, he began to picture it. He didn't want to, but the image played out in his head before he could stop himself. That _cock_ making out with his girlfriend – that was all he could see: lips brushing against lips, his tongue moving in her mouth….

It disgusted House.

He was _repulsed_.

"I'm sorry," Cuddy murmured, cutting across his anger. Her face buried beneath her fingers, she repeated herself. "I'm sorry. So sorry." She wasn't crying; he'd caught sight of a few stray tears over the past few minutes, but she wasn't sobbing.

And yet he could tell: she was close to reaching that point. Which meant one of two things. Either she hadn't wanted to be kissed at all and had been taken by surprise, _or_ she _had_ wanted to kiss John, and she felt guilty now that she had.

There was no doubt in House's mind what had happened.

Sure, she was sitting in the car in front of him with as much guilt on her features as she could muster. Yes, she was apologizing as though she had committed the crime willingly.

But House knew better.

With Cuddy, guilt was a sign of… well, her being alive. There wasn't much she did that _didn't_ evoke feelings of guilt in her. Did she get to work late? Guilt. Did she let Rachel have an extra cookie? Guilt. Did she accidentally run over a stray dog (which, to be accurate, turned out to be a giant stuffed animal and not an actual animal)? Guilt – even though he had told her repeatedly that she hadn't killed anything.

Truthfully, it was her default position in life. If something went wrong, she automatically assigned blame to herself, whether doing so was warranted or not. And he wasn't sure how much guilt she should feel for what happened with John.

But House was absolutely convinced that he didn't have it within himself to make her feel worse.

She was already upset, already more guilty than she needed to be. Even if she'd led John on earlier, even if she'd _been_ leading him on for years, she clearly hadn't wanted _this_. And to punish her for that when she was already doing that to herself was _not_ something House could do.

Admittedly, there had been a time where he would have behaved differently. Had this happened two, three years ago, he would have tried to make her feel as badly as possible. Considering how unhappy it made him to hear her say she'd kissed someone else, it would have been incredibly tempting to make her similarly displeased. And back then, he wouldn't have been able to resist said temptation. Hell, even now, he could feel a very small part of him itching to hurt her. As ugly and awful as that was, there still remained a piece of him that said she deserved to feel just as badly as he did.

But unlike then, he wouldn't listen to that voice inside of himself now. He didn't need to. She was already clearly in pain, and for him, that was enough.

Okay, maybe that wasn't how he wanted to put it. Her tears hardly satiated him. He wouldn't _be_ satisfied until he confronted _Dicki_ Minaj and then beat the hell out of him. When the room around them looked like an ode to _Black Friday_, _then_ House would think that was enough, cause his girlfriend being upset definitely _wasn't_.

However, he could think clearly enough through his homicidal haze to know that hurting Cuddy wouldn't make him feel any better. Yelling at her, making her feel worse than she already did – it wouldn't do anything for him. It would leave him wanting and, if he pushed her too far, in want of a relationship.

And so he was cautious with his response. Because as angry as he was, he was determined to protect what he had with Cuddy. Rage silently churned inside of him, but he would _not_ let John Kelley come between them. House had worked too long and too hard at this to let some pencil dick nose his way in.

Treating Cuddy too harshly would easily make that happen, so he was determined _not_ to behave that way.

"It's – it's okay," he said, totally hearing how lame it sounded. One of his hands reaching out to her, he gently let his fingers bury in her hair. As he stroked her, dark curls softly slid over his knuckles. "I'm not mad."

He felt her scoff and wasn't surprised when she looked up in disbelief.

"Really," he told her before she could object.

But that didn't make her feel any better.

In Cuddy's mind, what she had done was… _horrible_. And she said that all the while knowing that that word couldn't even begin to describe what she'd done. She said that knowing that what she did was _unforgivable_, so she couldn't believe that he was okay. She _wouldn't_ believe it.

In fact, if he was saying that he wasn't mad, she could only think that he was toying with her. Because there was no way he _wasn't_ angry with her – of that she was sure. And so if he was pretending otherwise, then she had to conclude that he was playing her; he was lulling her into a false sense of security before unleashing the rage he surely felt. She'd been with him too long to _not_ know how he would react.

And frankly, she simply had _no_ interest in indulging in his games. Usually she didn't mind it, didn't care about participating in his version of fun.

But not today.

Not with _this_.

If he was going to be mad, she didn't want to pretend otherwise. As hard as facing his ire would be, she preferred the honesty. She would rather have him yell and scream and say all sorts of awful things about her than to hear him say that everything would be okay.

So she shook her head and told him, "Don't do this."

"Do what?" He seemed genuinely shocked, but he had always been a better liar than her.

"You know what."

"I –"

"Oh stop it," she snapped. Forcing herself to get out of the car, she stood up. She didn't like how he towered over her, but even at her full height, he still did. The fact that she was wearing heels barely helped, but at least she was closer to meeting him eye to eye.

"Sorry," House replied sarcastically. "I left my Crazy-to-English dictionary in the house, so you're going to have to –"

"Another man kissed me," she interrupted loudly. "And you want me to believe that you're not mad at me?" She shook her head in disbelief.

He shrugged. "Why would I be?"

He could tell his question was upsetting her. As soon as the words had left his mouth, he could see the anger flash in her eyes. And he wasn't surprised by the way she responded with irritation.

"Oh, don't be an idiot. And don't treat me like _I'm_ one," she said, practically growling. "For years you've been telling me that John's been interested, and I didn't listen. Don't act like –"

"_Yeah_." He gave an exaggerated nod of the head. "You were wrong." House considered pointing out that being wrong was hardly a novelty when it came to her; at work, she was always telling him no, why something was too dangerous or too _illegal_. And when he ignored her and _saved_ his patient, which he usually did, she was wrong then. So he hoped she realized that being wrong wasn't exactly unusual for her.

However, she seemed agitated enough that telling her that _probably_ wasn't in his best interests.

Instead, he simply pointed out, "Normally I like that."

"I've noticed," she said with a pinch of darkness.

"What can I say? Mocking you is fun." He resisted pointing out how often she was worthy of being mocked, once again realizing that saying that was _not_ in his best interests. "But in this case, doesn't seem like I really need to." He could see the question in her eyes and therefore didn't bother giving her a chance to ask it. "You were wrong about him. He kissed you." House shrugged. "Seems like punishment enough for me."

As soon as he'd said it, he regretted the words. Although he didn't think he'd said anything bad, the rage he saw in Cuddy's face was making him reconsider.

"You are such an ass," she said through gritted teeth.

Abruptly she turned away from him. Ducking back into the car, she grabbed her purse. "How does this go in your head exactly?" she asked as she spun around once more. "He kisses me, but at least I was wrong, so that's all that matters."

He looked at her like she was crazy, which just pissed her off more. "Is that what I said?" he asked mockingly. "Cause I'm pretty sure I didn't say that at all."

Cuddy ignored him. "I didn't _ask_ for him to –"

"Didn't say that either," he interrupted calmly.

Out of frustration, she sighed. But he was quick to reach for her hand before she could talk.

"That's not what I meant," he said in a reassuring voice. "What I _meant_ was you're clearly _upset_."

She bristled at the adjective. He wasn't wrong, of course, but she didn't like hearing him say it. Far too often that word in too many men's vocabularies had been code for women behaving emotionally, which was every sexist's worst nightmare. And Cuddy understood that he didn't mean it _that_ way, but she couldn't suppress her instinctual response to the word.

If House noticed her reaction, he didn't point it out. Rather, he explained, "I don't need to make you feel worse."

She remained doubtful. "You wouldn't need to, no. But if you blame me –"

"And why would I do that?" His tone was even, kind, and in the face of it, she was taken aback.

He was supposed to be mad. He _was_ mad; he must have been, she thought. She had kissed another man. There was no way he wasn't furious about that. … Right? He couldn't possibly be as forgiving as he appeared to be.

That just wasn't an option… right?

Cuddy shook her head a little. "I-I don't…." She rubbed her hand along her forehead. With exasperation, she asked, "Why are you doing this? Why aren't you mad?"

He smirked, but there was no humor in his features. "Another man kissed _my_ girlfriend. Anger doesn't begin to cover how I feel about that," he said in all seriousness. His voice stern and cold, he added, "Believe me: that's not something I'm going to forget any time soon."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, looking away from him. As much as she anticipated his fury, it killed her to hear him say he would remember this for a long time; she could understand his ire, but selfishly, she wished she didn't have to see it.

And yet she was also fully aware that when he'd been relaxed and sympathetic, she hadn't liked that either. She'd yearned for his outrage, even as it nauseated her to be a witness to it. Which really only meant one thing:

She had no idea how she wanted him to react to her.

_None_.

She didn't know if she wanted his anger or his support, his disgust or his understanding. And rationally she recognized that because of that, no response he gave would make her feel better. She could concoct the perfect reaction in her mind; she could envision a scenario she wanted him to play out. But the second he were to act it out, it would suddenly become the one thing she _didn't_ want to hear.

Cuddy couldn't explain why or how that was possible. Even though she could tell that she was behaving that way, she had no idea why. However, she supposed the reason didn't matter. Even if she could point to one, it wouldn't change things. She would still be unhappy, conflicted…

Guilty of cheating on her boyfriend.

He must have seen a flash of pain that she felt, because at that moment, he pulled her close. His arms wrapping around her, she could feel the warmth of his body even through her wool coat.

Awkwardly she moved into his embrace. He was being kind, _sweet_ really, but she was uncomfortable with the display of affection.

Of course, she _wanted_ to relax against him, _wanted_ to surrender to the comfort he was offering her. Of _course_ that was what she wanted. But she found herself unable to trust the moment. Whether she felt this was too out of character for him or too nice for someone in her position was unclear. And ultimately unimportant, she thought as her body tensed against his.

"I know you are," he said in a convinced manner. "You've been crying, and you smell like puke. If you didn't feel bad, you probably wouldn't have barfed," he pointed out, the words whispered warmly against her ear. "Of course, it might be there if you kissed him and then felt bad for enjoying –"

"I _didn't_," she said so hastily that it sounded like a lie.

Still he didn't push her away in anger. He simply agreed with her. "I know."

Cuddy was reluctant to believe him. "Do you?"

She felt him shrug. "I admit… I've been suspicious of _his_ motives. And whether you admit it or not, I think some part of you _enjoys_ that attention."

"I don't –"

"You _do_," he interrupted firmly. "And why shouldn't you? It's nice – some beefcake thinks you're hot. It's flattering."

"I didn't ask –"

"I know." House tried to sound as understanding of that fact as possible. Part of him felt that that was hard to do, because he was so annoyed at John's behavior and because House had said those exact words over and over. But in case he hadn't succeeded in being understanding, he repeated once more, "Cuddy. I _know_."

When he felt her chin bump against his chest lightly, he realized that she was nodding her head in agreement. At least, he thought with relief, she believed that.

"I _also_ know that you… kinda have a thing for me."

He swore he could feel her stifle a laugh. Which was a good sign, he felt; she wasn't so upset that she couldn't appreciate the humor. So he pushed it further.

"The technical term for someone like you? _Dickmatized_."

She tried to pull away a little, but he wouldn't let her go. Given John's behavior, House felt the need to keep her close to him.

"What?" she asked in confusion.

"Dickmatized," he repeated matter of factly. Feeling her shift on her feet, he told her in a patronizing voice, "It's all right. Nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of women suffer from the same condition."

She looked up at him as best as she could. "I'm sure I'm going to regret asking this," she murmured. "But… 'condition'?"

"Oh yeah," he said with all seriousness. His arms tightened around her instinctively at that moment. He would need to explain, but he realized that she would bolt in outrage if he didn't keep a hold of her. "When a woman is willing to overlook a host of problems so she can keep having sex with the penis giving her orgasms –"

"That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard," she snapped, predictably trying to pull back.

"You think? Let's look at the evidence."

She rolled her eyes.

"We've been together for years now. You've had plenty of time to realize I'm hardly a good choice for you."

The conversation easily could have been a serious one. Maybe it even should have been a sober one. But at the moment, House wasn't trying to broach that reality of theirs. He was touching on it, sure, but more than anything, he was using that point to make a different one. And so he kept his tone casual, conversational.

"I've screwed up thousands of ways, but here we are," he said calmly. "Obviously it's not my personality and selflessness keeping you here. So I can only assume I'm laying pipe so good you're blinded with penis. Nine-foot-five Greg is really putting in work for –"

"That's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard," she interrupted at that point.

He gave her an incredulous look. "Is it?" Before she could answer, he posed a pointed question. "How many times have we had sex this weekend?"

"Sex with you is great. But I am _not_…."

She couldn't finish the sentence, which prompted him to ask, "You can't say the word?"

"Dickmatized is not a word," she said with a smirk. "And even if it were, I'm _not_."

His response was to simply shoot her a look of disbelief.

"I'm _not_," she repeated insistently. "Your penis is only a small –"

"Hey!" He quickly wiped the smile off his face.

But she continued talking unimpeded. "_Part_ of why I'm with you. Although it is considerably difficult when you say things like _dickmatized_ to remember why, I am _sure_ I'm with you for other reasons."

"Exactly," he said, as though this had been his point all along.

Truthfully, Cuddy wasn't sure how true that was. Had he really been guiding her to this overall point – that she was with him for very specific reasons – this whole time? Or had he seen a good place to end this conversation, to avoid getting into a fight with her, and seized the opportunity?

She guessed it didn't matter. But the fact that he was making that point at all took her by surprise.

"You've had plenty of opportunities to dump me and go for someone like him," House said, interrupting her thoughts. "You haven't, which is why I know you didn't want to kiss him today."

She understood what he was saying, but she felt the need to say, "If I had known…." She shook her head a little. Looking back at it now, she thought how blatant John had been all this time.

And she hadn't seen it.

Because if the thought had entered her mind, if she'd really considered him to be a threat to her relationship, she would have been smarter all of these years. House had said she liked the attention but –

"Well, I don't know why you're dating me," he told her, ending the thought before she had a chance to finish it herself. "But _I'm _definitely not dating you for your brains." At that one of his hands slid down her back and grabbed her ass.

As he squeezed her, she understood that he wasn't being serious. But it annoyed her anyway. In her estimation, he shouldn't have been so good-natured about all of this. Regardless of how much he planned on blaming her, she felt he shouldn't have been so _jovial_.

Pushing him away as best as she could, she said dryly, "You're taking this remarkably well. I'm glad this hasn't prevented you from making jokes about my ass."

"Your ass?" He pretended to be surprised by this. "I was talking about the fact that you still went to the drycleaners after all this happened," he told her, gesturing to the neat plastic bag with his suit in it hanging in the back.

"Oh." Her surprise was more genuine than his had been. But her confusion over his behavior, he felt, was equally matched to his own.

As she turned to grab his freshly cleaned suit, he couldn't help but contemplate her observation. He _was_ taking this well – better than he should have, really.

Again, he recognized that this was easier to deal with since he knew Cuddy would have never kissed someone else willingly. But even then, he wasn't nearly as angry as he should have been.

At least he didn't think so. He was joking and forgiving, and only in the back of his mind did he consider how much of an affront all of this was to him personally.

And _that_ was not normal.

What _was_ normal was for him to be angry, hurt. Par for the course in this situation was for him to turn against Cuddy, for him to wield his feelings of betrayal like a weapon.

Under normal circumstances, it wasn't enough for her to feel bad. She had to feel _awful_.

And sure, he'd felt that kind of rage for a nanosecond the minute she'd told him. But he'd been able to _stop_ those feelings.

Why?

He'd originally framed this deviation in behavior as a change within himself. But the longer he stayed in the garage with her, the more that seemed like wishful thinking. Because for all of the murderous feelings he had for John, for all of the forgiveness and protectiveness he was willing to give Cuddy, more than anything, House felt relieved.

He hadn't realized it at first, but the more he thought about it, the more he could identify the feeling inside of him.

It was _relief_.

As though he'd suddenly been saved from something bad happening, it felt like his entire body had exhaled in satisfaction.

But that made no sense, he thought. What did he have to be relieved about? That Cuddy had been tempted to cheat on him and she'd refused? That didn't work. As he'd said to her, she'd been with him long enough that any desire to leave him would have already made itself known by now; if there'd been an inkling in her mind that she could do better, that she _deserved_ better, she would have cut ties with him the second things had become difficult. Yet she had stayed, and in his mind, that made him fairly convinced – at this point anyway – that she wouldn't cheat on him. Leave him? Yes. Probably eventually she would figure out she deserved better and break up with him. But he didn't think she would cheat; that just wasn't her style.

However, if he didn't feel relief over her fidelity to him... then what exactly _was_ making him feel that way?

Watching Cuddy bend over and grab his suit, he wasn't sure where any of this was coming from. What had happened that would make him feel that way?

As though asking the question had automatically given him the answer, he felt himself smile. Of course, he thought, it would be that easy. The reason for his relief would be _that _obvious.

It was Rachel.

More specifically, it was the fact that Cuddy's screw up meant that she couldn't possibly be that angry over _his _mistake. Whereas he had been terrified before, he now confidently thought that she would have to be tolerant of his shortcomings. She would have to think, no matter how unhappy she was, that he'd treated her so nicely after her little tongue-wrestling match with Colonel Cock Butter. And House knew she would be, in kind, no matter how much she wanted to be otherwise, nice to him.

Regardless of how Rachel tried to manipulate her mother, he had a pass for this, another chance.

And maybe that wasn't right; maybe that was actually pretty awful. But it was true.

"Why are you smiling?" Cuddy asked suddenly as she turned back around to face him.

He pretended not to understand the question. "What?"

"You're smiling." She looked disturbed by that fact.

"I don't smile? Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens don't –"

"You look like the Grinch when he realizes he can steal Christmas."

House was tempted to say that he was sure her mother wouldn't appreciate the Christmas-related reference, but he decided against it. Mentioning Arlene was a good way to irritate Cuddy, but he didn't think it would necessarily be an effective method in changing the topic of conversation.

So he lied.

"It's nothing. I was just contemplating my options," he explained in an intentionally vague way.

Cuddy naturally took the bait. "Options for what?"

"Well, you kissed someone else. It's only fair that I get a similar allowance with the lady of my choice." He made it all sound very matter of fact. Not so secretly he enjoyed the irritation flashing in her eyes. "Tell me, he use tongue?"

Her jaw clenched. "You're not kissing anyone else."

"No?"

"House, if you kiss another woman," she said threateningly. Forcefully she shoved his suit into his arms. "I will iron your testicles in your sleep."

But if she'd meant for it to be a frightening warning, he clearly didn't take it that way. He simply smirked. "Now now, sweet pea, we both know you don't know how to iron."

She couldn't stifle her growl. Truth be told, she understood that he was just messing around with her. He wouldn't kiss another woman any more than Cuddy herself would. However... she wasn't exactly the kind of person who had no problem with her boyfriend looking at other women. In fact, she was as far from that type of woman as you could possibly get.

She was the jealous type... the _very_ jealous type. And he was manipulating her obviously, but she still didn't appreciate being forced to think about him kissing a hypothetical woman.

"I will learn," she said firmly. "And if I can't, I will find some other way to make you suffer." She flashed him a grim smile.

"Given all the clinic duty you've _forced_ upon me, I have no doubt."

Cuddy didn't say anything in response. Letting the conversation shift to clinic duty would be… a mistake. House didn't push the matter often; over the years he'd learned that she would never budge on this. But every once in a while, he'd bring it up in the hopes that she would have suffered from massive head trauma and would agree to letting him out of it permanently. And when that never worked, he tended to get whiny and she annoyed. Which tended to irritate him in turn. And when that happened, she would ask why he expected professional favors, and whatever his response… it was never good. It didn't turn into a big fight; they refused to let it get that far these days. _But_ those moments did have the tendency of cooling things between them.

And they didn't need to have _that_ happen today.

She was too exhausted to have that conversation.

"Let's not do this," she said suddenly, her voice sounding as tired as she felt.

House nodded calmly after a moment of contemplation. "All right."

She watched him shift the dry cleaning bag over to free one of his hands. The bag crinkled, and briefly Cuddy worried that he would wrinkle the freshly pressed clothes. But as he placed a warm hand on the small of her back, she decided she didn't care.

"I'm tired," she told him, feeling the adjective in every cell of her body.

Guiding her towards the door, he suggested, "You should lay down. I'll make you something to eat."

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry."

"You should eat something before this party, which I'm assuming we still have to go to."

There was a touch of complaint in his tone. But she was willing to ignore it. As he held open the door for her, she thought that it was the least she could do.

However, even if she'd planned on responding, she would have never gotten the chance. The second House opened the door, her attention shifted completely. Because the minute the door was open, it was impossible to miss the sound of Rachel shouting.

_Screaming_.

Cuddy could tell just from the sound that Rachel wasn't in pain. It didn't sound like she was crying from being hurt. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how Cuddy looked at it), Rachel seemed to be throwing a tantrum.

Immediately, Cuddy glanced at House questioningly. Although he would no doubt disagree, she wasn't accusing him of anything. She just wondered what the hell had happened to make Rachel upset.

But all he said was, "We had some problems."

Cuddy didn't bother to ask what that meant. Given how young Rachel was, the so-called problem could have been anything – from "House didn't let me have cake for lunch" to "I don't have a puppy." Cuddy didn't mean to make it sound as though her child were _bratty_; she wasn't _at all_. It was just simply a fact: five year olds could find fault in nearly anything. And frankly, when House and Rachel were together, they played off one another in the worst sort of way, creating plenty to complain about.

Whether those complaints were valid or not, Cuddy wasn't sure at this point. House wasn't elaborating, and she didn't know if that were a good or bad thing.

"Great," she muttered.

"Go lay down," he suggested. "I'll deal with this."

But she shook her head. Even if she believed he could handle things, she was too… resigned to the fact that she was going to have a terrible day. Really, she should have known it was going to be like since after breakfast. But she hadn't. And now that she was aware, she could only accept that lying down, having House take care of her… none of it would actually make her feel better.

"No," she said eventually. "I'll handle it."

"You sure?"

Looking at him, she thought he seemed almost _reluctant_ to hand over control. She wasn't sure if that was because he had done something or because his attempt at being Wilson (and therefore sympathetic and helpful) wasn't over.

Well, either way, she wasn't going to hand this off to him.

"I'm sure," she told him firmly. "I'll take care of it."

She didn't bother to see if he followed her as she walked away. She _hoped_ he hadn't; she would have preferred to deal with this on her own. But she didn't really care either way. Once again, she was resigned to having an awful day, and so she headed towards the living room without a glance back. She didn't expect him to follow or object, help or hinder.

But as she caught sight of Rachel, Cuddy couldn't help but think he'd _already_ done something: he'd made things worse.

She didn't know what had happened, of course; she had no idea what was wrong. But there was no denying _something_ was wrong when she caught sight of Rachel.

The little girl was beet red with effort and anger, _jumping_ on the couch. Or rather, she was jumping on some sort of blue stuffed animal Cuddy couldn't identify from this small distance. But that was a detail she barely noticed.

It was the fact that Rachel was screaming, "I hate you," over and over that caught Cuddy's attention. She shouted the angry words with each leap into the air. Every time she came down, the sofa springs echoed her rage with a harsh squeak.

Suddenly faced with the possibility of the couch_ breaking_, Cuddy admonished her quickly. "_Rachel_, stop jumping on the couch. _Now_."

Rachel fumbled, her feet awkwardly landing when she realized she'd been caught. And obviously afraid of being trouble, she immediately hopped to the ground. One cautious glance at her mother, and she ran away as fast as her legs could carry her.

Cuddy understood that, if she wanted to get to the bottom of all of this, she would have to follow her. But for that brief moment, Cuddy was frozen. Dumbfounded, she couldn't help but wonder:

What the _hell_ had happened while she was gone?

_To be Continued_


	18. Chapter 18

Author's notes: Wow, it's been so long since I updated! I apologize to everyone, but with moving across country and a new job, it's taken me a while to get enough time to write this monster. Hopefully, I can get back into a schedule from now on. I guess it's also safe to say that at this point, _Screws_ is completely AU. House never tried to kill Cuddy, haha. Just so we're clear.

Thank you to HUddyphoric, Katrina Puffinstuf, LibrarianKate, Jane Q. Doe, Cath, althea60, Josam, dmarchl, MissBates, Bar, hughsoulingregsmind, MARNIC, newsession, red blood, EllieShelly, xxClouds, lin12344, House ever, TetrasFish06, wrytingtyme, Temo, Winnywriter, oc7ober, AdieAngel, and IHeartHouseCuddy for taking the time to read and review. All of your feedback is appreciated. It's what kept me writing after that depressing finale.

_Disclaimer: I don't own the show. And if I did, I would never admit it._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Eighteen: Landmine**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

Finding Rachel was the easy part. In a small house, it was impossible for her to hide for very long. And given that she liked to choose the same places over and over, it wasn't difficult for Cuddy to locate her under the dining room table.

"Rachel," she said gently, crouching down so she could see her daughter. The little girl was huddled underneath one of the chairs. She had her chin tucked between her knees, and she looked completely guilty. "Will you come out please?"

Cuddy sounded nice about it, but her tone made it clear that the question was hardly a suggestion.

And yet Rachel didn't move.

"Come on," Cuddy insisted in a patient manner. "You can't hide under here all day."

Rachel licked her lips before hesitantly admitting, "Don't wanna get in trouble."

Cuddy wasn't surprised to hear the words come out of her daughter's mouth. Aside from vegetables, Scrappy Doo, and lemurs, being placed into time out was Rachel's least favorite thing. And when she knew she was in trouble, she almost always attempted to get out of it. By crying, by screaming, by apologizing or saying quietly that she'd understood what she'd done wrong – she was willing to do nearly anything to avoid being punished. No tactic was beneath her. Unfortunately for her, Cuddy usually refused to be moved.

Perhaps that was a bad thing. Maybe she would be a better mother were she willing to give her daughter some leeway when she screwed up. God only knew her own mother hadn't ever done that, and there was very little normal about _that _relationship. But then Cuddy had always insisted mentally that that was different. _Her_ mother wasn't solely responsible for her upbringing. Arlene had had a husband she could push that off onto once in a while; she'd had the option to say wait until your father gets home or let him pick up the slack when she'd felt her relationship with Cuddy had deteriorated too much.

But who did Cuddy have to help with Rachel? _House_? He didn't care about what kind of person Rachel became. As long as she wasn't annoying him specifically, he was more than content to let her do whatever she wanted. And that left all of the responsibility on Cuddy's shoulders – whether she liked that or not.

Normally, she was… _okay_ with being the sole parent to her child. There were moments where concern for her ability to guide her daughter seemed all consuming, instances when she was sure she was doing the wrong thing for everyone involved. And in those times, it was almost easy to wish for a partner to share the responsibility. But for the most part, she was content with her choices and the things she had to do as a result.

Even if it meant she was always the one handling Rachel's punishment.

Today though… she didn't have it in her. To be the bad cop, to correct her daughter and fight with her to time out – to do _any_ of it seemed like too much. So… she wouldn't.

"You're not in trouble," Cuddy said sweetly. "Come out, honey."

Rachel didn't move at first. As though getting away with her crime hadn't even crossed her mind, she just sat there. An expectant look in her eyes, she was clearly waiting for her mother to change her mind.

But Cuddy didn't have any intention of doing that. And frankly, if she'd wanted to punish Rachel, she didn't need to trick her daughter into it. She _wouldn't_. That would be too pathetic a course of action for Cuddy to even consider.

How though could she explain that to her daughter?

"Rachel," she said after some time. "Mommy has had a _bad_ day. And while I don't like that you jumped on the couch, I know _you_ know not to do that. Right?"

Shame welled in Rachel's big, dark blue eyes, and she looked away.

She felt bad – like her belly was full of thousands of jellybeans that reached the back of her throat. She _did_ know better. Mommy was always saying, "No jumping on the couch." Or on the bed or the dining room table or the bathroom sink like that one time. Rachel knew she wasn't supposed to do that stuff. She didn't want to say she did, cause then she would get in trouble and be forced to admit that she'd jumped on the couch cause she was mad at House.

Really, really, really, really, _really_ mad at him.

So mad she just wanted to tilt her head back like Muppets always did and scream how much she hated him.

But she didn't. Well… she _had_, but she wouldn't do it again, cause Mommy would get mad. She didn't like it when anyone said they hated someone else, she said. That was what she always said. But Rachel believed that she just didn't like anyone saying that they hated _House_.

So it didn't matter if Rachel said something now. She could scream and cry all she wanted, but Mommy wouldn't listen. Or if she did, she would get mad – not only cause Rachel had admitted to jumping on the couch and knowing better than to do that, but also cause she said she hated House.

Knowing that, Rachel just said in response, "Yes."

"You're not going to do it again," Cuddy prompted.

"No. I won't."

Cuddy didn't believe her. She didn't think Rachel was _lying_, but Cuddy recognized that once again, her daughter was young. And no matter what she promised, sometimes couches were going to seem like good things to jump on.

But there was nothing to be done about that now. As long as Rachel meant what she was saying – and she certainly seemed to – that was all that mattered.

"All right," Cuddy said in a voice she forced to sound cheery. "Then that's all I need to hear."

Rachel scooted a little on the floor, but she didn't come out.

"Let's go," Cuddy encouraged, motioning for her to come closer. "Mommy wants to change and hear all about your day."

She must have sounded convincing enough, because Rachel slowly crawled out at that.

"There we go." Cuddy stood up before helping Rachel to her feet.

As she started to guide her daughter down the hallway, she asked, "What happened while I was gone?"

It was an intentionally open-ended question.

With Rachel, it was better to approach things that way. If you asked her what was wrong, sure, she would answer you. But she tended to leave out important details when she was upset. She would give you a certain amount of information, but there were times when she would finish her story, and Cuddy still didn't quite understand what had upset her daughter to begin with. And she'd learned that it was simply easier to give Rachel a wide birth to explain. At least, when that happened, there was always the chance that Rachel would reveal, if inadvertently, the important things she would have left out otherwise.

Or not.

"Nothing," Rachel grumbled in response.

But Cuddy didn't believe that. "Really? Nothing?" she asked doubtfully when they entered the master bedroom. Practically making a beeline for her bathroom (and more specifically, her toothbrush), she said to a trailing Rachel, "You just sat here all day. Doing nothing."

Rachel followed her into the bathroom, but she didn't respond. And Cuddy supposed that she should have anticipated that.

Reaching for her toothbrush, she reminded herself that, whatever the problem, Rachel needed undivided attention.

But as soon as she'd had the thought, Cuddy recoiled from how awful that sounded.

Of _course_, her daughter needed to be the center of her mother's universe when she was upset. Of _course_ she wouldn't want to talk if she felt as though she were being ignored… an afterthought in her mother's eyes. And given how often Cuddy needed to handle work emergencies and how many moments she'd missed out on with Rachel, of _course_ her daughter would wait until she could see that her mother cared. _Obviously_ things would be that way. And Cuddy _hated_ how her own thoughts made it seem like she had ever forgotten that fact.

Because she _hadn't_.

She just… found it easy – too easy really – to get caught up in the frenzied habit of multitasking and the fearful energy kissing John Kelley had created in her body. And transitioning away from "Dean of Medicine" to mother, from the woman who had cheated on her boyfriend to Mommy wasn't instantaneous.

But realizing Rachel couldn't possibly understand that, Cuddy forced herself to make that shift. She couldn't think about work or how kissing John would affect that. She couldn't allow herself to be distracted while she talked to her child. She just had to make Rachel the center of her complete attention.

Brushing her teeth as quickly as she could, Cuddy said afterwards, "Just give me a minute, honey." Rachel shot her a look as though she'd heard that before, and Cuddy knew she probably had – more times than either of them could count. And instantly she found herself apologizing. "I'm sorry, Rachel. I want to hear all about it." Yet, even as the words came out of her mouth, she found herself scrubbing the make up off her face with soap and her fingertips.

As always, she thought miserably, she was screwing this up. Inwardly she felt that her relationship with Rachel came above all else, but rationally, Cuddy could see that that didn't always come through with her actions. At least, she didn't think that Rachel was aware of it, based on how this conversation was going.

As if proving that point, Rachel swung one of the bathroom cabinet doors open and shut out of boredom. Actually, at that moment, she was practically hanging on the door and forcing it to hold all of her weight, so perhaps swung wasn't the right word for it. But whatever the terminology, one thing was clear: she didn't feel that her mother was paying proper attention to her. And Cuddy didn't have it in her to argue otherwise.

Instead, she apologized. "I'm sorry this is taking so long, honey." Rachel said nothing. "Why don't you go wait on the bed for me? All right?"

Rachel stomped out of the bathroom. And whether that was because she planned on listening or had gotten sick of waiting, Cuddy couldn't be sure. But she decided to act as though Rachel had listened anyway and hurried to finish washing her face and changing her clothes.

On the latter count, Cuddy realized it wasn't necessary to change. By some miracle, she'd avoided throwing up on herself (or in her car), so putting on a different outfit wasn't mandatory. Having kissed John though, she wanted to rid herself of any reminder of the incident. She didn't want to be in her _home_ in the make up she'd worn, in the clothes she'd worn when she'd kissed him. As though those things had been tainted by that moment, she wished to free of them completely. So after Rachel stormed out of the room, Cuddy was quick to strip.

As she headed for the closet, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that Rachel had, surprisingly enough, listened to her; she was on the bed as Cuddy had asked. Or rather, she was _in_ the bed; buried beneath the covers, she was a lump among the sheets with just the tiniest bit of brown hair peeking out.

For the time being though, Cuddy would leave her there. Rachel was content where she was anyway, it seemed, so Cuddy headed towards her bureau. It only took her a couple seconds to settle on a thick cashmere sweater and black leggings that _always_ left House staring at her ass for hours.

To be perfectly honest, normally that fact was enough to have her reaching for a different pair of pants. She loved how attracted he was to her; of course she did. But there was something about this particular set of pants that made him a drooling mess, and sometimes that was more hassle than it was worth. Today, however, it seemed right. If he could forgive her for what she'd allowed to happen, then this was the least she could do in return.

As she slipped the clothing on, she understood that there was probably something wrong with using her body as a… she didn't even know what the right term was. As a pacifier? As a "Thanks for not dumping me" gift? She didn't know the best terminology for what she was doing, just that maybe it wasn't a good idea.

Oh well, she thought dismissively. There was no going back now. She'd made her decision, and even if she wanted to change again, she understood Rachel wouldn't wait forever. So she didn't bother to pick out a different outfit (or even truly consider it) and instead headed back to her daughter.

"Now where did Rachel go?" Cuddy asked loudly, so Rachel would hear. Pretending not to notice the lump under the sheets, Cuddy said, "I told her wait on the bed for me. Where could she have gone?"

Giggles came from amongst the bed linens, but Rachel didn't say anything.

"Well," Cuddy said dramatically. She plopped down on the bed right next to Rachel's covered body. "I guess I'll have to sit here and wait and hope she comes here soon."

And then, as if she accidentally was doing it, Cuddy placed a hand on top of Rachel. "What's _this_? Why is there a lump in my bed?"

Muffled, Rachel laughed. "Mommy, it's me!"

"Me?" Cuddy pretended to be confused. "Who's _'Me'_?"

Rachel kicked the covers off of her body. Her hair wild and messy, she said, throwing her hands in the air, "It's me. Rachel!"

Cuddy scrunched her nose up in confusion. "Rachel?" She shook her head. "Doesn't ring any bells."

"_Mommy!_" Rachel looped her arms around Cuddy's waist.

"Oh," she said, pretending to finally remember. "_That_ Rachel. We're kind of related, right?"

"Mommy, you're silly."

Truthfully, Cuddy wasn't used to hearing that. Being a doctor – the _boss_ – she couldn't remember the last time someone had actually thought she could qualify as _silly_. And it was nice to hear that maybe she _did_ still have a sense of humor… even if it was coming from her five-year-old daughter.

"So," Cuddy said, abruptly changing the subject. Her fingers beginning to card through Rachel's hair, she asked, "Are you going to tell me what you did this morning?"

Rachel let her head fall into her mother's lap. "Um…." She rubbed her eyes a little as she tried to remember what had happened. "We went to the store."

"For your medicine?"

"Uh huh."

"That's good," Mommy said. But Rachel didn't agree.

"He made me hold his hand," she grumbled. Thinking about it now, she frowned. She didn't like being forced to do stuff, and she _really_ didn't like it when the person making her do stuff she didn't want to do was _House_.

Mommy didn't get it though. "What do you mean, honey?"

"When we was –"

"_Were_."

"When we _were_ crossing the street," Rachel explained.

"Oh. So he held your hand while you were walking in front of _cars _and that's why you're mad at –"

"_No_," Rachel interrupted loudly. That wasn't why she was mad. Okay, it had made her mad at first, but then House had bought her Froggie. "I don't like touching him," she explained. "But he bought me –"

Cuddy scoffed, which promptly shut Rachel up. That hadn't been her intention; to make her daughter too ashamed to continue with her story was _not_ the goal. But Cuddy found it hard to keep quiet when she was faced with the likelihood of House having bribed Rachel to behave.

Admittedly, he didn't often do it. He barely paid enough attention to her to bribe her with any regularity. That fact almost made it worse though. Because if he'd been constantly doting on her, that would be one thing; at least in that scenario, he'd still be with her, interacting with her on a regular basis. But this… alternatively ignoring her and giving her gifts? Cuddy didn't like that. It sent the wrong message and, in her opinion, changed what could have been a nice gift into a very clear indication that he viewed Rachel as an annoyance.

Then again, he'd never pretended to see Rachel as anything _other_ than that. She'd always been a nuisance in his eyes. And Cuddy didn't know how aware Rachel was of that fact. But if he kept behaving that way, Cuddy _did_ know that her daughter would soon realize just how he felt; Rachel was getting to be that age where you began to understand more about the world, including that disappointment existed within it. And though House maintained that she was an idiot, no amount of idiocy would shield her from his blatant dislike for her.

"Mommy," Rachel whined suddenly, tugging at Cuddy's hand.

Cuddy blinked and glanced down at her daughter. "What?"

"You're not listening to me."

"Oh." The word existed her lips on an exhale, as she realized that she had, in fact, stopped listening. She was aware enough to know that Rachel hadn't actually been talking in those few moments of silence; she'd just stopped and waited expectantly for her mother to prompt her. "I'm sorry, baby. Keep talking. What did he buy you?"

Rachel rolled over a little on the bed. Her face now pressed against Cuddy's stomach, she said, "A monkey."

Cuddy gently lifted Rachel's head. "What did he buy you?" she asked again, not hearing the first time.

"A monkey," Rachel repeated.

"A monkey?" Cuddy smiled. "A monkey for my monkey?"

Rachel laughed some more. "You're funny."

Again, it was a compliment Cuddy wasn't used to receiving. And faced with it, she couldn't help but be taken aback for a moment. Silencing falling over it, it took her a few beats to pick up the conversation once more. "Did you thank House?"

Rachel made a look that said she was thinking.

Which said _everything_.

"Rachel, you know you need to thank people when they do something nice for you," Cuddy admonished.

Rachel shrugged. "I forgot."

"Well, when you see him next, will you please thank him?"

"_No_."

"No?" Cuddy asked. "Why not?"

"Because I _hate_ him!"

"_Rachel_." Cuddy shook her head in dismay. She knew that House could be hard to deal with – just as she knew Rachel could be as well. But if there were one thing Cuddy had hoped for over the years, it had been – _was_ – that those two incredibly difficult people could find something in common. Or, at least, she'd hoped that they would be able to build enough camaraderie that _hatred_ and irritation weren't the defining emotions between them. Yet it seemed like for all of her efforts, they still did not like, much less relate to, one another.

Still, Cuddy couldn't help but admonish Rachel. "We don't say we hate people. That's not nice."

Rachel looked anything but sorry.

And _that_ was because she _wasn't _sorry. Why should she feel bad for saying she hated House? He was the one who said he would read to her and then didn't. He was the one who ran away and hid in the bathroom and never came back out. He was the bad one.

"It's not nice to lie either," Rachel said snottily.

Cuddy thought immediately that she would regret asking this, but she did anyway. "What happened?"

"He lied." Rachel's lips were pursed into a deep frown. At that point, Cuddy couldn't be sure that House had lied, couldn't tell if there were actually legitimate reason for Rachel to be upset. But it was clear: Rachel _was_ upset.

"All right," Cuddy said gently despite her confusion. She really had no idea what had happened, but she didn't want to make it seem as though she didn't believe her daughter. "I don't understand. What happened after he got you your monkey?"

"Uh…." Rachel wriggled a little as she recalled what had happened that morning. "We came back."

"Okay."

"Um… he made me a sandwich."

Cuddy smiled. "Good. Did you eat it like a good girl?" Rachel nodded her head. "And you took your medicine?"

"Uh huh."

"I'm glad." Leaning down, Cuddy planted a soft kiss on her daughter's cheek. "What did you do after that?"

"Watched TV. It was boring." Cuddy inclined her heard to show that she was listening. Rachel continued, "I didn't want to watch anymore, cause it was stupid and I didn't want to watch it. So House said he would read me a story."

Inwardly, Cuddy tried to piece together a sequence of events for the day. Going to the store and coming back was pretty clear, of course, but other parts of what Rachel was saying just didn't make sense. After all, House agreeing to read to her? In what universe would _that_ happen?

Cuddy supposed it might happen if House were annoyed and simply eager to shut Rachel up. But surely there were easier ways to do that? Right? In her mind, the answer was a resounding yes, so clearly she must have heard something wrong.

"He said he would read to you?"

"Cause I was talking to him too much," Rachel said, unknowingly providing her mother with an explanation for House's behavior.

Still Cuddy felt the need to say, "You weren't talking too much. Maybe he just wanted to read you a story."

"He _didn't_ read me a story." Anger came through with each syllable spoken. Disappointment, if it were there, was so far buried that Cuddy didn't hear it. "He said he would, and I got the story, and then he _didn't_ read to me."

Even for House, that was odd. Reading to Rachel had a fair amount of strangeness in and of itself, yes. But if he'd decided to do that – even if it was only to shut her up – there was no reason, it seemed, as to why he _wouldn't_ follow through with that.

"Did the telephone ring?"

"Nope."

Cuddy searched for another explanation. "Was this right before Mommy came home?"

"No! He said he would and then he went away. He went to the bathroom."

"Well, maybe he needed to use the –"

"_No_. He didn't! He just lied. Cause he's a liar. And he lies," Rachel insisted angrily.

Cuddy let her rant. Normally, she would have been quick to stop Rachel, to stifle the awful words she was expressing. But right now, Cuddy didn't care much about that. She was too focused on the reason behind House's behavior.

"He didn't say anything to you?"

"No."

She was hesitant to ask her follow up question, but she didn't feel as though she had a choice. "And you didn't say or do anything to –"

"It's not my fault!" Rachel screamed, shooting up off the bed.

"Shh," Cuddy said calmly. "Don't yell at me. I'm not blaming you. Don't raise your voice at me."

It wasn't stern. She wasn't going for admonishment in that instant. Really, all she was trying to do was quiet Rachel down, so they could figure out what had happened. But Rachel didn't take her words that way.

"Sorry," she muttered.

Cuddy smiled sympathetically. "It's okay." She patted the bed. "Sit back down with Mommy." Once Rachel complied, Cuddy said simply, "I don't know why House didn't read to you."

"Cause he's a turd," Rachel supplied.

And with that pathetic insult, Cuddy ran out of patience. "Rachel, you need to _stop_."

"But –"

"No, listen to me." Her voice was calm but firm. "I know you're upset. I know you're mad. But sometimes people change their minds, and we don't always get what we want."

Rachel glowered. "But –""

"Listen, Rachel," Cuddy said more insistently. "I know you're disappointed, but you can't be angry like this."

"Yes, I can." Her arms folded across her chest, Rachel was defiant.

"_No_. You're not going to behave this way. You're going to be a _nice_ little girl."

Rachel shook her head. "No, I'm not."

And it was precisely moments like this one where Cuddy wished she had a partner to parent with. Because here they'd been having a fairly nice conversation, and now things were about to get heated. The calm discussion they'd had was about to be over with, the fight about to begin, and Cuddy thought it would have been nice to have someone to send Rachel to for that.

But she didn't.

There was no one else.

And that meant that the only person to challenge Rachel was Cuddy herself.

"_Yes," _she said sternly, easily sliding into the roll of boss. "You _are_. I didn't teach you to be nasty. I taught you to be a nice little girl." Rachel shot her a dirty look that said the efficacy of those lessons was doubtful. "So you're going to calm down. You're going to apologize to House for –"

"What? No!"

"Oh, yes, you are," Cuddy said matter of factly. "You've been shouting at the top of your lungs how much you hate him. And I have no doubt that he's heard you say those mean things."

"So?"

"So you're going to apologize."

Rachel looked like she swallowed something sour. "Do I have to?"

"Yes. You've said some very not nice things since I've been home, and you know better than to do that," Cuddy told her. "So you can either apologize now, or you can spend time in time out and _then_ apologize."

The threat of time out was what did it.

"Fine."

"All right. Come on," Cuddy said standing up. It was better for everyone if Rachel apologized as soon as possible.

Of course, there was a chance House had no idea what was going on. Cuddy doubted it, because it was in his nature to know things he didn't need to know. But there was the possibility that he hadn't heard Rachel.

And yet that didn't matter to Cuddy. Whether he'd heard or not was almost irrelevant to at this point. Because either way, until Rachel was forced to let go of her anger, she would make things unbearable. Not unlike House, when she was upset, the entire world had to know about it. She was at varying intervals (again, like House) rude and sullen, never leaving anyone in doubt of how she felt. And if that happened now, then it wouldn't matter that House didn't know what was going on.

He would figure it out.

Then there would be two immature people for Cuddy to contend with in her own home.

On the other hand, if Cuddy forced everyone to apologize and move on, she thought she could save them all a _lot_ of pain. And if that meant pushing Rachel to say she was sorry, then that was what was going to happen.

Still, Rachel seemed reluctant to follow through with the plan. She didn't dare remain on the bed, of course. She knew better than to defy her mother. But Cuddy could tell she didn't want to behave either.

Rachel slowly dragged herself off the bed, and as though her feet were made of cement, she was now _trudging_ behind her mother.

Cuddy was tempted to say something but didn't. She would have preferred Rachel to move faster, sure. But at this point, mentioning it would have felt like nitpicking. It would have made Cuddy feel like _her_ mother, and she hated when she caught herself behaving like _that_. So she decided to avoid the comparison all together and kept her mouth shut.

Unfortunately it became almost immediately apparent that Rachel would take advantage of this. Perhaps emboldened by her mother's silence, Rachel started to walk even slower. It should have taken her mere seconds to get off the bed and leave the bedroom, but she was determined, it seemed, to take as long as possible. And by the time they actually made it to the living room, she barely even pretended as though she were going to apologize.

Instead of looking for House, she seemed eager to look for everything but him. And when her eyes fell on a book lying in the middle of the room, she moved toward _it_ and not the sounds coming from the kitchen.

"Rachel," Cuddy started to warn.

But the little girl simply reached down and picked up the book.

To be honest, as irritated as she was becoming, Cuddy couldn't help but notice the book in her daughter's hands. The passing thought that she hadn't really seen it before came to mind unbidden, but she didn't think much of it. At the moment, that was truly the least of her concerns. And she was about to order Rachel to put the book down, when she handed it to her.

"See?" Rachel asked, pressing the colorful book into her mother's hands.

Cuddy didn't. She tried to understand what Rachel was trying to tell her, but she didn't see.

Not at all.

But she tried. Rather than automatically say she didn't get it, Cuddy did her best to figure it out.

She glanced down at the book in her hands. Nothing immediately jumped out at her.

Except for the title.

But then again, it was hard to miss _Everybody Poops_ written in a disturbing olive green color.

Once more Cuddy couldn't help but think she'd never seen this book before. And with that came the question: if she hadn't purchased it, where the hell had it come from?

All right, that sounded a little dramatic.

The fact of the matter was that Cuddy didn't really care how it had ended up in her home. Given the way Rachel had accumulated books over the years, it was probably safe to say that someone had given it to her as a gift. Julia or Arlene, Wilson or someone hoping to manipulate Cuddy for whatever reason – the possibilities were endless as to who might have given it to Rachel. And Cuddy didn't really care either way who had purchased the book. But the question entered her mind nonetheless.

And when she opened the book, she hadn't intended to learn who had bought _Everybody Poops_. She wasn't even sure why she opened it up, other than maybe to see if she could figure out what Rachel was talking about.

But there it was: the answer to her question.

In bright red lettering was Kutner's name.

All of a sudden, it wasn't so hard to understand why House had been unable to read to Rachel.

He never talked about what had happened.

_Ever. _

At the time, she had tried to get him to open up about Kutner and how that had made him feel, but House had stubbornly refused. And that didn't surprise her.

It had never been in House's nature to willingly discuss anything about that difficult and dark time. Sometimes he would allude to it, choosing to carefully reveal a little tidbit of information. For the most part though, he didn't talk about it. As though it had never happened, he didn't discuss it.

But Cuddy had never believed those wounds had healed. His silence had never fooled her into thinking he had fully dealt with that _awful_ chunk of time. So it didn't surprise her that he would get upset upon seeing Kutner's name in the book.

Granted, she was getting ahead of herself. She didn't know for sure that House had seen the name. She didn't know much of anything from his perspective, as he had conveniently left that out when she'd come home. In theory though, it made sense.

It was a possibility.

In fact, at this point, she suspected that it was what _had_ occurred. She was willing to give herself some leeway, so she wouldn't be completely blindsided if proven wrong. But truthfully, she felt that she knew what had happened.

When it came to books, Rachel had a specific way of being read to. She liked being able to see and savor every page. Cuddy had come to believe that this was her daughter's clever way of avoiding bedtime and extending what little playtime they had together, as Rachel was _obsessed_ with following this particular method. Skip a page and she got upset; make things up to speed the plot along and Rachel always seemed to somehow know that was what her mother was doing. And just because House was the one reading the story didn't mean Rachel would want things done any differently. So chances were… House had seen Kutner's name.

Instantly Cuddy felt a pang of guilt hit her. If that had happened, what had _she_ done? Follow it up with a confession that she'd kissed another man – that was what she had managed to do.

Foolishly she'd thought she couldn't feel worse than she already did about kissing John. But if House had been reeling already from seeing Kutner's name, she had added onto that pain. And fearing that that was exactly what she'd done, Cuddy felt her guilt grow exponentially.

Her stomach rolled with realization. If she'd been nauseous before, it was nothing compared to how she sick she felt in that second.

But what could she do?

She'd screwed up – _again_ – and she felt awful about that, but with claustrophobia-creating clarity, she knew she couldn't do anything about that _now_. Rachel's eyes were wide and totally on her, and even if Cuddy wanted to make things better, how was she going to do that with an audience? How was she supposed to approach that matter with her daughter around?

Cuddy knew she couldn't. Even if she knew exactly what she wanted to say or how to make all of this better (and it went without saying that she _didn't_), she couldn't say anything in front of Rachel. Rachel didn't need to know about it, and House would be angry if she did. Under no circumstances would he want her to hear about any of it. So Cuddy understood that she couldn't say anything about it.

Really, all she could do was deal with the small matters at hand. She could address the real problem later, but right now, she needed to make Rachel apologize. At least then, superficially, things would be better.

And knowing that, Cuddy glanced down at her daughter. "Rachel, we don't have time for this." She started to set the book down on the couch, but Rachel reached out to stop her.

"No. You don't understand," she whined.

Cuddy refused to get upset. "He didn't read to you," she said in a calm voice.

Immediately it was apparent that that was the point Rachel had been trying to make. The look of relief on her tiny face screamed loudly that she was happy Cuddy understood. Shoving the book into her hands had been, evidently, Rachel's way of saying, "See, he didn't read to me."

Cuddy wasn't sure how she was supposed to know that by _sight_, but she didn't question it either.

"I know," she told Rachel. "I believe you. He didn't read the story. But that does _not_ excuse the things you've been shouting."

Rachel pouted. "He doesn't care."

"I bet you that's not true."

Cuddy really would, she thought. If he had heard what Rachel said, he would be unhappy. He would never admit it, because saying that he was hurt would mean he was saying that he cared whether or not she liked him. And in his mind, that was blasphemy, because he clearly didn't want to care.

Maybe he didn't even really. They were operating in so many shades of gray that Cuddy was never comfortable making definitive statements about how he felt or why he behaved the way he did. It _seemed_ like if he were upset, it would mean he cared on some level. But maybe he didn't. Maybe it was like, if he were saddened by Rachel's comments at all, it was because he knew it would create questions about their relationship in Cuddy's mind.

At this point, Cuddy sort of suspected that this was the more likely scenario.

Either way though, it all amounted to the same thing, right? It all meant that if he'd heard Rachel, he wouldn't be happy.

"You need to apologize," Cuddy said for what felt like the hundredth time.

Rachel wasn't ready to give up the fight though. Clearly having realized that every argument she'd made hadn't worked so far, she tossed out a new tactic. "He's gonna be mad," she complained with a hint of forced fear in the words.

Never mind that she had said not one minute before that House didn't care. The idea that he would be _mad_ was ridiculous to Cuddy.

"He's not going to be _mad_."

But Rachel didn't look convinced. Actually, the more Cuddy looked at her, the more Rachel seemed _genuinely_ concerned.

She was nibbling on her lower lip, her gaze cast to a spot on the floor next to Cuddy. Perhaps she really hadn't thought about House's reaction before. But upon being told that he would care about the things she'd said, Rachel was clearly starting to think about what might happen if that were true.

And that hadn't been Cuddy's intention at all. She'd wanted her daughter to realize how hurtful her words could have been, not frighten her.

Sighing Cuddy reached forward and smoothed Rachel's hair down with her hand. "All you have to do is apologize, honey. If you do that, I know he'll forgive you."

Rachel didn't seem convinced.

"It'll be fine."

But Cuddy was almost sure it wouldn't be the second they entered the kitchen. Having followed the sounds coming from it, they'd found House rather easily. Yet the second she saw him, she could tell that this wasn't going to go according to plan.

He wasn't doing anything wrong per se. He was standing in front of the stove, cooking something though she had explicitly told him _not_ to do that. But he wasn't doing anything that said he was angry.

And yet…

Cuddy knew instinctively that things weren't quite right. There was just something about the way he didn't look over at them or say anything that felt off to her. No, those things didn't automatically spell out trouble, but she just _sensed_ it.

Even as she proceeded with her plan, she understood something wasn't right.

"Rachel," she prompted quietly. "I think you have something to say."

Instantly, Rachel tried to run away and squeeze through Cuddy's legs. But Cuddy was too quick and easily caught her.

"No," Cuddy admonished. "You're not done yet."

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that House had frozen in place. Before he'd been stirring something in a pot, not doing much but mulling around nonetheless. Now he wasn't moving at all, and it was obvious that he was listening to every word she was telling Rachel.

"Go on," Cuddy told her hastily. She didn't want him to realize just how forced this apology was, but that seemed inevitable. Which meant that really the best she could hope for was to not make it so _obviously_ coerced.

Rachel didn't seem to share that concern.

Bitterly she turned around. Her footsteps fell loudly, as though she had no problem with House hearing how put out she was. It didn't matter that only a few minutes before she'd been afraid of making him angry; as of this particular moment, she wasn't acting as though she thought she needed to apologize.

Cuddy suspected that it was probably a defense mechanism on her part: Rachel feared House being cruel, so she would take the first jab at him. But at this point, there was no telling how true that suspicion really was. And Cuddy knew that, no matter the reason for Rachel's behavior, it had to stop.

Crouching down so that she was at Rachel's level, Cuddy asked her in a quiet but firm voice, "Do you want to go to time out?" Rachel shook her head. "Then _stop_ acting this way and behave."

Rachel's lips turned downward into a deep frown, but she knew better than to argue. Cuddy's tone had left no room for that.

"Fine," Rachel muttered before turning to look at House once more. "I'm sorry I said I hated you," she said in a voice that didn't sound honest in the least.

For his part, he knew what she was going to say even before she opened her mouth. Kids were predictable that way, and Rachel was the most predictable of them all. He'd heard her screaming how much she hated him when he'd first come in from the garage with Cuddy. If he'd been offended at all then, it had been because he'd known they'd have to go through the fake apologies and make up. It had _not _been because he was _hurt_ over what Rachel was saying.

Really, it _hadn't_.

The clearer he tried to make that point in his head the less believable it sounded, but he was sure it was the truth. He didn't care that Rachel hated him. If she wanted to ignore every nice thing he'd ever done for her and _tried_ to do for her today, he couldn't stop her.

And he definitely wasn't going to beg her to do otherwise.

Cuddy would want him to. It didn't matter how much he was obviously trying; she always chose to judge him the second he set limits for himself. In her mind, he should have been willing to do _anything_ to make Rachel love him.

But he wasn't.

He had learned early in life that the rejection that hurt the most was the kind that came from the people you were supposed to be closest to. And he had spent an inordinate amount of time in his adulthood trying to ward himself off from those feelings of inadequacy. He couldn't change that for Rachel, for _Cuddy_, just because he or she wanted him to.

Besides, wasn't there something to be said for Rachel meeting him halfway? He could grovel as much as Cuddy wanted him to, but what did it really matter if Rachel never had to show any affection for _him_? Sure, she was a kid; he got that. But did that really exempt her from any sort of effort on her part?

No doubt, Cuddy would say that, by forcing her daughter to apologize, she was making Rachel meet him halfway. It hardly felt like that though. She could barely apologize to him while he was expected to be kind to her no matter what, and it definitely didn't feel like they were meeting in the middle.

And House could admit to himself that that sounded incredibly childish. But nevertheless he still felt that he shouldn't be the only one trying to make this relationship happen. She should want it too.

Even if he hadn't believed that though, he still would have found it impossible to accept her apology at that moment. Because screw everything else; Rachel's inability to apologize now meant that she wasn't sorry at all for saying what she said. She didn't feel bad for saying that she hated him.

The way she was speaking, she didn't feel bad _at all_.

Because she really did hate him.

She must have.

There was no other explanation.

And if she felt that way, he didn't think there was any reason for him to accept her apology. After all, if she couldn't even pretend to be sorry, then why the hell did he need to pretend like he didn't know that?

House didn't think there was a reason.

Even as Cuddy anxiously waited for him to respond, he didn't believe he needed to say anything in return.

"House," she said then, her voice leading. "Don't you have something to say to Rachel?"

He pretended not to hear the question. The answer was an obvious no, which was why it didn't need to be said. Satisfied with his silence, he refocused his attention on the soup cooking in front of him.

Cuddy had said she wasn't hungry, and he'd believed her. Stress usually had an appetite-suppressing effect on her, and he didn't think kissing that douche bag would be any different for her. (Hell, that would make anyone not want to eat.) Nevertheless, it was important that she eat.

House didn't mean to be the creepy, overbearing boyfriend, nor did he mean to portray her as the starving girl who needed to be saved. He just felt that it was important for her to take care of herself… which _did_ make him sound creepy and awful, admittedly. But there wasn't a better way for him to put it. Regardless of everything else, he loved her, and he didn't like it when stress forced her to go hungry. And even though it was slightly difficult in that moment to want to care for her, House focused on cooking anyway.

Unsurprisingly, no one else appreciated the act of kindness.

Cuddy prompted him again. "House?"

But she was too late. Rachel had already figured out that things weren't going to go the way she wanted them to. Even if House had wanted to say, "Apology accepted," she would have known it was a lie.

Immediately, she whipped around to face her mother. "You _lied_!" she screamed, her voice sounding as though she were on the verge of tears.

Cuddy hadn't been expecting that, because she seemed shocked when she said, "Rachel."

"You said he wouldn't be mad, and he's mad!"

With those words screeched loudly, she ran out of the kitchen.

He expected Cuddy to follow suit, but he was wrong about that. She stayed with him.

"What are you doing?" she asked after a moment of silence. The question was posed calmly, though it was absolutely clear that she didn't approve of how he'd handled things.

But he chose to act as though he didn't understand what she was talking about. "Making you lunch," he said casually.

She was taken aback by his answer. He'd taken her question more literally than she'd intended, but even putting that aside, Cuddy was surprised by what he said.

"You're making me lunch?"

He nodded his head. "Specifically a spiced carrot-apple soup with –"

"I told you I wasn't hungry," she said in even tones. She was hardly annoyed by his behavior, but at that moment, there was something incredibly sad about his inability to do what she wanted. That he would refuse to accept Rachel's apology but cook a meal Cuddy had said she never wanted… it just felt _completely_ backwards and utterly depressing.

"I know," House replied, picking up the immersion blender on the counter top. "But you should eat something." He hesitated for a moment before adding, "I was listening to what you said." She must have looked doubtful, because he followed that up with an insistent, "I _was_."

Stepping closer to the bubbling pot, she replied conversationally, "So you just decided to ignore –"

"Not at all. But you didn't eat a lot at breakfast, and you threw up, and it's going to be a while before dinner. And I get that you can go all day on a bowl of fruit, but that's not healthy, and it shows." He'd turned on the blender, and the last few words came out louder and harsher than she _hoped_ he'd intended. She couldn't be sure, but she hoped that he wasn't _angry_.

Not because she would feel _bad_, but because it was ridiculous for him to be upset over something she couldn't control.

"If you're referring to my weight," she said tersely once he'd turned the blender off.

"I am."

Instantly, she felt as though she had to be defensive. It wasn't her fault that her appetite seemed to disappear in times of stress. It _certainly_ wasn't her fault that _stress_ seemed to be all around her. "I can't do anything about that."

House set the immersion blender in the sink and looked at her. "I'm not blaming you."

She surmised that that was probably true. It seemed like he was holding her accountable, but rationally, she could hear that there was no accusation in his tone. And yet she couldn't stop herself from snapping, "But you thought it'd be a good idea to bring it up today, when I don't have, I don't know, a hundred _other_ things going on."

"You're acting like there's something to discuss," he said, loudly cracking fresh pepper over the pot. "There isn't."

She shook her head. "You –"

"You accused me of ignoring what you wanted," House interrupted. He tried to keep his budding irritation out of his voice. He didn't want to start a fight; that hadn't been his intention _at all_. "I was explaining what I was doing. I'm not asking you to do anything. Eat the soup or don't. Doesn't matter," he said gruffly.

Part of him foolishly expected her to apologize. Whether for assuming the worst in him or for putting him in this situation all together, he didn't know. But at that moment, he _had_ expected her to say something contrite.

She didn't though. Instead, she acted like she was doing him a favor when she said, "Fine. Pour some in a mug."

And frankly, that would have irritated him further if the mug part didn't gross him out so much. "A mug?"

"Yeah."

"You're going to_ drink_ it?" His face screwed up in disgust.

"Uh huh."

He wanted to point out that that was gross. The soup might have been pureed, but like yogurt and pudding, it was meant to be _eaten_. Drinking it was just… _nasty_. But by a narrow margin, he resisted saying that aloud. "If that's what you want," he said diplomatically instead.

Without another word, he grabbed a coffee cup out of the cupboard. It killed him to scoop the bright orange soup into it, but he quietly did so. There'd been enough drama already that it seemed completely unnecessary to get in a fight over soup.

Cuddy must have felt the same way, because she was quick to take a sip as soon as he handed her the long, thin mug to her. "This is good," she admitted as she swallowed. "Thank you."

She leaned towards him and gave him a soft peck on the lips.

"Eat it before it gets cold," he murmured against her mouth.

She pulled away but didn't drink anymore. The cup cradled tightly in her hands, she just fidgeted. Glancing down at it before back at him, she asked cautiously, "Are you doing this because of what I did?"

House felt his brow wrinkle in confusion.

Absolutely, he was clear on the what-she-did part. _That_ piece of the question could only refer to one thing: her kiss with John Kelley. Even though she'd admitted herself that he had kissed her, House knew without a doubt that that was what she was referring to. Of all the things she'd done today, that was the only action worth any discussion. But the rest… he didn't get that.

"You think I made you soup, because another guy kissed you?" he asked in disbelief. "_Yeah_, that's exactly –"

"Not the soup," she interrupted in frustration. She looked away for a moment. "Rachel," she said eventually.

"No," he answered immediately.

But Cuddy clearly didn't believe him.

"_No_," he repeated more emphatically.

As suspicious as the timing might have seemed, his issue with Rachel had nothing to do with what had happened to Cuddy. Frankly, if he'd let the revelation about John affect him at all, House knew it would have swayed him in the other direction; he would have been nicer to Rachel, more of the doormat Cuddy seemed to desperately want him to be. Because if John's actions had made House realize anything, it was just how important staying with Cuddy was.

But she couldn't see that. Shaking her head a little, she said, "You refused to talk to her, and I'm supposed to believe that the two aren't related at all." She spoke as though she were testing the voracity of that theory out. And the way her tone shifted from curious to doubtful instantly spoke to how likely she thought that possibility was.

He shrugged. "Hard to believe, maybe, but it is possible."

She set the mug of soup down on to the counter top. "Possible, but usually the simplest theory is the right one."

"I'm mad at you, so I'm gonna treat the kid like crap and make you soup?" He smirked. "If by simple, you mean stupid –"

"Okay," she admitted hesitantly. "Then what's the issue?" She threw her hands in the air. "If this has nothing to do with me, what's the problem?"

House rocked on the back of his heels at the question. His leg stung from the change in weight distribution, but it was a nuisance that he barely noticed; what she was asking of him felt far heavier than the burden in his right thigh at that moment. Because what she wanted to know was something he couldn't even begin to explain.

How was he supposed to tell her that, while he understood her need for him to bond with Rachel, he couldn't stand her penchant for ignoring how he felt?

He didn't know. It sounded so stupid and selfish – yes, _selfish_ – that he didn't know what to say to Cuddy.

So he lied. "There's no problem."

Cuddy must have realized that it wasn't true. But she also didn't seem to care about the lie, not if it meant she could twist his arm into getting what she wanted. "Then you can go talk to her."

"I _can_," he said, agreeing with her. "Am I _going_ to? No."

She scoffed. "Why not?"

He didn't know how to answer the question. Any attempt at discussing the root of the problem would be unsuccessful. Of that he was sure.

Cuddy liked to act as though she knew exactly what she wanted when it came to House's relationship with Rachel, but he knew otherwise. Some days (like today) she wanted them to get along at all costs; she didn't care what he had to do to make that happen. She didn't pay attention to how much of an effort he had to put in to make Rachel warm up to him. Cuddy just looked for results.

No matter what it cost him.

No matter how much it encouraged Rachel to think she could say or do anything to him.

Other days she got angry when he made the effort; she thought he was spoiling Rachel or overstepping his bounds or... whatever. The only thing that seemed consistent was that Cuddy didn't know what she wanted of him – other than total and complete submission to what she felt was best on that given day.

But he didn't dare tell her that.

Inherently he understood her ambivalence. He wasn't exactly filled with clarity when it came to Rachel either. But for all of their sakes, he felt that Cuddy needed to make up her damn mind. Until she did, there was no point in him taking any sort of initiative.

Again though, he couldn't answer her question by saying any of this out loud. It was reason enough for him not to talk to Rachel, but Cuddy wouldn't comprehend what he was trying to tell her. She would either get mad and spew some crap about how she was trying to protect Rachel or ignore the point altogether, because it was easier for her that way.

And in House's mind, this was far too important for the point to get lost.

So he offered the easiest excuse there was. "She didn't apologize."

Cuddy laughed and picked up her soup once more. After taking a long sip, she said, "Of course, she did."

"And she sounded _so_ sincere."

He expected her to deny it, but instead she said, "Well, obviously not."

Maybe it was wrong, but Cuddy couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes. "She didn't mean it… just like she didn't mean any of the things she was screaming earlier."

It clearly wasn't enough for him though. "She seemed pretty convincing to me."

She had to hand it to him: he_ nearly_ succeeded in making her think that he didn't care. The way he spoke was so blasé; it was almost enough to convince her that he wasn't hurting.

But there was something about his bravado that was forced and out of place. No matter how genuine he tried to make it sound, his voice didn't match the sadness in his eyes.

As unlikely as it seemed, he was _upset_, Cuddy realized. He'd not only heard Rachel screaming how much she hated him, he'd also been hurt by what she'd said.

And without even thinking, within a split second, Cuddy found herself saying, "Oh, baby."

It was the worst thing she could have said.

As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she regretted them fiercely. It was the complete opposite of what he would want to hear, and because of that, he would never let her even _begin_ to broach the topic of Kutner. She'd screwed up so badly.

Maybe that was understandable though. When it came to consoling, she was used to dealing with Rachel, who needed sympathy to be as pronounced and lavish as possible. Out of habit, Cuddy had done the same here.

But House was _not_ like Rachel. When he needed support, he needed it to be subtle, quiet. He would not want this.

And he made that immediately apparent.

"Oh, _shut up_."

Cuddy took a step forward to hug him. He backed up in response, and she didn't make any further attempt at holding him.

"She didn't mean it," Cuddy repeated. "You can't take it personally."

He sneered. Though he refused to admit that it bothered him at all, he couldn't help but say, "Well, that just makes it all better then."

"Of course not," she said softly. "But if this is bothering you that much, you should talk to her about what she said."

He shook his head. "_No_."

"House, she's five. She doesn't know –"

"Then you should teach her," he barked.

If he regretted saying it at all, it was because the words set her off.

With milliseconds, he could see her jaw clench in anger. "I am doing the best that I can," she said in short, flat tones. She spoke in a way that attested to just how many times she had had to assert that fact – that she was doing the best she could as a mother.

Not even through his own frustration did he dare to disagree with her. Whether he agreed with the sentiment or not didn't matter. The fact that she would rip his nuts off if he even tried to call her a bad mother _did_.

So he exercised a modicum of restraint and let her keep talking.

"I'm sorry that she said those things about you and that you heard," she told him. Shaking her head, she admitted, "That's not what I wanted. It's certainly not how I want her to be. _But_." Cuddy flashed him a dark look. "I can only do so much. If you never talk to her, tell her how _you_ feel, she's never going to –"

"I don't have anything to say to her," he said simply.

And that was the truth. He had absolutely nothing to say to Rachel. He was irritated by how things had turned out today, but there was no reason to discuss that, especially not with a five year old. His irritation would be fleeting, and Rachel would be less annoying if they stayed out of each other's way, and, at some point, he would go back to work and she would be in school, and they would get past… whatever this was.

But Cuddy didn't seem to want to let it go.

"So what are you going to do? You'll just, what, ignore her until –"

"Why not?" he said calmly. "If I don't forgive her and she's not sorry, what's the point in pretending otherwise?"

Cuddy looked at him as though she couldn't believe how dumb he was being. "I can't believe you're saying that." Her mouth hung agape for a moment. "Are you really that stupid? _Really_?"

"I'm still standing here, talking to you, so the answer to that question is a –"

"Great," she said snidely. "Then we're in agreement: you're being a moron."

He cocked his head to the side. Pretending to consider what she was saying, he told her, "No… _no_, I don't think so."

If her eyes were capable of popping out of her head, House was sure they would have at that moment. She looked _that_ shocked.

For the life of him, he couldn't understand why. He'd never been quick to forgive. He'd certainly never sought out Rachel's forgiveness when _she'd_ done something wrong. Why was this so hard for Cuddy to get?

He decided to ask her.

"Why is this so confusing for you? You're shocked I'm not a doormat?"

"No," she practically exclaimed within what felt like a nanosecond.

She didn't sound _angry_, he thought. Confused, annoyed, yes, but surprisingly she wasn't angry. To be perfectly honest, he expected her to be for obvious reasons: he wasn't doing what she wanted; he wasn't being completely subservient to her and her daughter. But she wasn't mad. At least, he didn't think so.

Really, she just sounded frustrated. "A doormat?" She sighed, the air sounding ragged as it escaped her throat. "House, I'm not telling you you have to forgive her right this –"

"That's not what it sounds like."

Cuddy didn't say anything right away. A little voice inside of her wanted to scream and shout until he got the point, but she knew that would be ineffective. He would not respond to anger, and she would get nowhere by giving into her exasperation.

Forcing herself to take a few deep breaths, she was slow to respond. She wanted to make it _absolutely_ clear how she felt; anything less and House would use that ambiguity as an excuse to do whatever the hell he wanted.

And she _wasn't_ going to let that happen.

"I don't care," she said eventually. "If you're angry with Rachel."

"That much is obvious," he quickly retorted.

She shook her head. "I _mean_ that I'm not asking you to forgive her this second." She took another deep breath and asked herself _why_ he insisted on making things so difficult.

She did not ask the question aloud.

"I understand that you're… unhappy. If you want a better apology, fine." He looked at her as though he didn't think she really thought that. Which made her pitch go what sounded like half an octave higher when she insisted, "I get it. I _really_ do. I am not asking you to pretend like it didn't bother you."

He wouldn't ever admit that he was confused, of course, but he couldn't stop himself from asking, "Then _what_ is your problem?"

"I want you to talk to her," she said calmly, firmly.

"No."

"You can't just ignore her."

"Why not?"

Cuddy knew the card she had to play then. If just asking him wasn't going to work, if appealing to his common sense wasn't going to work, she only had a few tactics left. Scraping at the bottom of the barrel for ways to compel House, she understood that none of her options were _good_.

No matter what she said or did from here on out, he would be mad. And she didn't exactly care about offending him at this point, no. But she was concerned that he would be too furious with whatever she said to take the only reasonable action available to him.

What else could she do though? He couldn't spend the next few hours, days, or weeks ignoring Rachel. Hell, given the way he could hold a grudge, who knew how long this would all last? And in all that time, while he was being hurt, just how much would he be hurting his relationship with Rachel?

Cuddy knew the answer to that question. It would impact her daughter tremendously, and by extension, his bad mood would poison every dynamic in the house. Rachel would want his forgiveness more now that he had shown just how upset he really was. But if he kept ignoring her, at a certain point, she would harden towards him. She would become resentful of his resentment, and she would hate Cuddy for not putting an end to all of it. And when that happened, if not before, Cuddy would be equally angry towards House. She would be furious at him for putting her family through all of this. And then who knew where things would go?

She was determined not to find out. So while none of her options were particularly great, Cuddy wasn't going to let that prevent her from saying what was necessary.

Still she was tentative when she spoke. "I would think that you know the answer to that already."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked with far more directness than she was showing him.

She inhaled deeply. "Wilson -"

"Wilson likes to masturbate while wearing women's panties," House interrupted.

"_Wilson_," she repeated firmly. He was trying to distract her now, to avoid whatever she was about to say. Oh, he had no clue where this was going. Cuddy knew that much; he didn't know what was coming. But she'd also learned years ago that House had an uncanny ability to sense when something bad was about to happen to him. He didn't know what was going on, but surely, he could tell that he wasn't going to like what came out of her mouth.

She pressed on anyway. "Wilson once told me that your father -"

"Oh, well if _Wilson_ said something, it must be true."

Perhaps stupidly, House had hoped that an out-of-hand denial would put her off of finishing that sentence. Instantly though, he realized that it wasn't going to work.

"You told Wilson your father didn't talk to you for two months." She put it out there gently, in a way so as not to offend him.

But it _did_ offend him. Just the idea that she would even go _there_ pissed him off more than he could say, and he was determined to put a stop to it.

"Like I said, if _Wilson_ said something, it _must_ –"

"Wilson has no reason to lie to me."

"Maybe not," he said with a smirk. He was almost amused by the way she was overlooking so many possibilities. "But who says I _didn't_ have a reason to lie to him?"

He thought he had her with that question. He really believed he'd created enough doubt to force her to go down a different path. It was clear though that he hadn't.

"You didn't lie," she said knowingly.

His chin jutted out defiantly. "You don't know that."

"Your mother would," Cuddy responded. "Would you like me to call her?"

There were no comebacks left for him. He couldn't say that his mother would never tell her or that his mother didn't know. His mother knew more than he'd realized, and she seemed to have no problem talking to Cuddy about all of it. Despite his displeasure, the two had formed an obvious kinship. His mother's loneliness had made her embrace whatever kind of family she could get, and Cuddy would undoubtedly use that relationship to get to the truth.

He wanted to break up with her with all of his heart at that second. In that moment, he _hated_ her so much that he never wanted to see her again. And every last shred of self-control he had disappeared.

He'd tried to calmly steer her away from this topic. He'd tried to appeal to her senses and let him handle Rachel how he wanted.

And she'd done _this_?

No, whatever consideration he might have given her before was gone now. _Screw_ her and what she wanted.

Viciously he said, "You spend your morning with your_ tongue_ down some guy's throat, and you're gonna bring _that_ up."

As anticipated, she looked livid.

And ashamed.

But she was calm when she spoke. "If you want to be pissed off at me for kissing another man… that's one thing." Her hands curling into fists, she practically snarled, "But don't you _ever _use that against me so you can _avoid_ having a conversation about –"

"How I'm just like dear old Dad?" he interrupted angrily. "You think I'm gonna stand here and let you compare this to _that_?"

Cuddy took a step back, clearly stunned. She swallowed hard. "House," she said, her voice suddenly quiet. "I wasn't doing that."

He wasn't buying it. "You were. That's exactly what you were doing."

"No, she said, shaking her head. Her lips turning down into a frown, she explained, "I was not saying that."

"You _were_."

Of course, she would try to back out now, when she saw just how pissed he was. If he'd just nodded his head and accepted what she was trying to say, she would have gone on with her little comparison. Only because he'd fired back had she stopped. And he was far too unhappy to forget that fact.

"No," she repeated.

He watched her intently as she took a step closer to him. And when she reached out and touched his forearm, he glanced down at the place she'd rested her hand.

"That's not what I was saying," she insisted. "With everything I've heard about him, I _know_ that you are not the same person."

House _yearned_ to believe her. Though she had been the one to plant the foul idea in his head to begin with, that he was like his father, he wanted so _badly_ to believe that they were different people. And that overrode everything else. His ire, disgust, _hatred_ – none of that seemed to matter much then.

He hadn't completely forgotten what she'd said. Of course, he hadn't. The whiplash from angry to desperate might have quelled any desire he had to continue the fight. He might have wanted to believe what she was saying. But he did not forget, nor could he, the fact that she had brought up his childhood. Even if she weren't comparing him to his father, House _himself_ had now considered the comparison. And he didn't think he was like his father; he didn't _want_ to be like his father, but part of him couldn't easily shake the idea that somehow he had turned out similarly.

True, he'd never done to Rachel many of the things done to him. He'd never made her sleep outside or bathe in cold water.

But did that really make him any better overall?

He wasn't sure anymore what the answer to that was.

He _wanted_ to believe that the only way to respond to such a question was with an exuberant _yes_.

But Cuddy had touched on something within him. Whether she had meant to do that or not, whether she'd really been comparing him to his father or not, she had made _House_ believe that there was a comparison to be made. And he couldn't shake that thought off as quickly as he would have liked to. He wanted to, but he _couldn't_, and frankly, that terrified him.

What did it say about him that he couldn't easily believe they were different? He _hated_ his father, but he couldn't say with any certainty that they were definitely cut from different cloth?

It made House feel queasy.

His blood ran cold at the very idea. It had been snowing for days now, but only in this particular moment did the storm seem to permeate the walls and his own skin. And he could not shake the feeling, even as his own muscles shivered at the thought. Not even Cuddy's warm hand on him could soften the chill that seemed to have frosted over every cell in his body.

Her words were equally ineffective.

"I would _never_ say that," she said, each and every word stressed as though she were begging him to believe. "There is no doubt in my mind about that."

He _was_ desperate to believe her. If he thought that she honestly thought the difference were that apparent, he could push aside the fear clawing at his insides. He could move forward without considering why he'd ever thought differently, and it went without saying how nice _that_ would be.

But he couldn't believe her. No matter how much he wanted it, he remained doubtful. As though he didn't trust salvation that came cheaply, he was unmoved by what she was saying.

"Right," he said doubtfully. "You didn't mean that; you just thought you'd throw that out there for fun."

Inwardly he was incredulous. He was really going to fight her on this? When he _wanted_ her to be right?

It was hard to believe, but there was no taking the words back. He'd said them. He'd meant them.

"I wasn't comparing –"

"Yeah, you –"

"Not to your _father_," she snapped irritably. Cuddy must have known he was going to disagree, because she was quick to continue talking. "If I was comparing anyone, it was you to _Rachel_."

"Why the hell would you do that?" he asked, voicing the thought as he heard it in his head. "That's not even remotely the –"

"You wanted to ignore the problem," she explained slowly. She sounded as though it pained her to be logical and calm towards him, but he wasn't concerned with that. "And I understand the impulse, House, but I was trying to say that you of _all_ people should know why that's a bad idea."

Okay, he thought, maybe she hadn't been comparing him to his father directly. But House wasn't exactly sure what she _was_ trying to say was any better. Because maybe she didn't think he was his father, but she definitely seemed to think that there was the same ability to _harm_. House wasn't John, but apparently she felt he had the equally stupid idea of not talking to someone for two months. Evidently she looked at what he was doing and pictured typed up notes under doors or some equally idiotic way of communicating as Rachel couldn't read and typed up letters would be pointless.

"Oh, that's so much better." He pulled away from her.

She sighed in obvious frustration. "Just stop, all right?"

"Stop what?" She would no doubt take this question as being a sarcastic one, but he was serious. "Being offended by you saying –"

"I'm not saying anything bad," she said through gritted teeth.

"Oh really?"

"You're taking offense, because you want to avoid the conversation," she insisted.

He wanted to laugh; the idea was so dumb. But he settled for, "If you say so."

"I do." Her reply was firm. "You would never intentionally hurt Rachel. If I ever thought differently, we wouldn't be dating. You wouldn't live here."

"But _unintentionally_ I would," he said, reading between the lines. "I wouldn't beat her, but I'd –"

"All I am saying is that, as _hurt_ as you are –"

"I'm not hurt."

Cuddy didn't look convinced, and he knew it was because he had hardly been convincing.

"You're not thinking clearly," she said in a sympathetic voice. "You want to avoid showing her that you're..." She looked like she wanted to say "hurt" again, but she was smart enough not to. "_Unhappy_ with what she said. All I'm saying is that you're only going to make things worse."

He didn't bother to respond. Nothing he could say would change her mind. At this point, that much was clear, so he didn't think it was worth trying.

"You need to talk to her."

"Do I?"

"_Yes_." The word came out in a hiss. "Because by weaseling your way out of the conversation, you've now hurt _her_. And the longer you let this go on, the more upset she is going to be."

"Well, since it's all about _her_."

Instinctively House realized how childish he sounded. The words were so immature, even to his own ears, that helplessly he reflected on how he'd handled this whole thing. He wasn't wrong; he would never admit to THAT, but hearing how he sounded now, he could only think that he had been just as mature as Rachel had been about it.

Cringing, he waited for Cuddy to say as much out loud. He expected her to point out that he'd been behaving like a little boy desperate for Mommy to take his side.

But she didn't do that. She just said, "It's not _all_ about her." Her lips turned into a grimace, as though it pained her to even say that. "But she is my daughter, and I have to look out for her."

"You mean protect her from _me_."

Cuddy was careful with her response. "Sometimes, yes. Emotionally, I do."

He scoffed. So much for her saying that she knew he would never hurt Rachel.

"When you get it in your head that this is some sort of competition with her, yes, House, I have to protect her." She frowned as the words came out. "It's not healthy for her to think that I'm making a choice between you two every time I –"

"Right," he said, cutting her off. "Well, then, maybe I shouldn't talk to her if I'm so psychologically damaging to her."

"_Or _you could realize that I love you both very much, that I would be _extremely_ unhappy if I ever lost either of you, and that for _my_ sake," she explained, gesturing to herself. "It's worth trying to work things out with Rachel."

He smirked. "So really, this is all about you."

"This is about _us_."

"Funny, cause I don't see you thinking much about how I –"

"House," she interrupted. "You have to get along with her. You have to make this work with her. Because if you don't –"

"You think I don't know that?" Really, she thought he wasn't consumed by that fact? That he didn't know just what was at stake here?

Cuddy shrugged. "I know you do – rationally. But sometimes I don't think you're capable of doing what I need you to do." With effort she finished the rest of the soup he'd dished out for her. "I think you get resentful of her every time this gets difficult for you, and you're picking this fight with me now, because you don't like what I'm asking you to do."

"Ya think? What made you think _that_?" To himself, he thought that sometimes she wasn't the smartest person in the world.

But although he didn't say that aloud, she still seemed to get angry. "You need to suck it up."

"Thanks for the advice."

"You know what will happen if we can't make this relationship fit with Rachel's needs."

"Of course I do," he agreed. "You only remind me of it every day of my life." In a falsetto voice, he mocked, "Get along with her or –"

"You need to protect _us_."

The words were a demand.

They were not a request, not a statement of fact.

They were orders.

"That's all there is to it," she said with finality. "_Protect_ us."

With that, she walked away.

House let her go. He had no desire to talk to her any longer. She clearly wasn't going to budge, and discussing it with her would just be a waste of both their times. So he simply watched her go.

Now alone in the kitchen once more, he couldn't help but consider the situation ironic. There was absolutely nothing humorous about what had happened, but he still thought it was ironic – that Cuddy should be such a powerful and successful woman and still ask him to be the protector.

He'd never thought that that would be their relationship. Cuddy was stronger than anyone he knew. Being one of the most accomplished women in her field, adopting by herself, dating _him_ – it all spoke to just how much strength of character she had. She had more than he did anyway. And that had been part of the reason to date her. She was a stabilizing force for him, something he had desperately needed and depended on for years.

She was not someone who needed _him_ to watch out for her.

But here she was asking for just that.

And House knew that he had no choice but to play that part, because Cuddy had made it clear: if he didn't do it, no one else would.

He had to protect their relationship.

Because she certainly wasn't going to anymore.

_To be continued_


	19. Chapter 19

Author's Notes: You have no idea how sorry I am that I haven't updated in so long. I never planned on taking so much time to write this chapter, but after having some of my ideas plagiarized, it took me a while to decide I still wanted to write. I'm sorry for the wait; blame the jerk who made me want to delete all of my work altogether. Thank you to those who encouraged me to keep going and to those who have left the kindest reviews for me: red blood, IHeartHouseCuddy, TetraFish06, JessicaLynH, xxClouds, Temo, lin12344, EllieShelly, hughsoulingregsmind, Akemi1582, MARNIC, newsession, Gobblin, Josam, paroulis, oc7ober, House ever, Kate Andromeda, Katrina Puffinstuf, Huddyphoric, Jane Q. Doe, MissBates, and BETEDELSTEIN. You guys are the only reason this chapter was finished.

_Disclaimer: David Shore is someone else._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Nineteen: The Snowman**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

Leaving House to consider what she'd said, Cuddy headed back into the living room. Part of her wanted nothing more than to stay with him, to keep talking until she'd _forced_ him to see what he was doing wrong. But rationally she understood that things rarely worked out that way. She could explain things calmly and point him in the right direction but after that? Only House could make House do something.

At this point in their relationship, she knew that he would consider what she'd said; she'd earned that much. But _he_ had to be the one deciding to talk to Rachel, and that was all there was to it. Cuddy had done the best she could to make him understand. Now she knew she simply needed to trust that he would eventually do what was right.

And no matter what he decided to do, she also knew that she needed to tend to Rachel. Her apology having gone unaccepted, Rachel was, in all likelihood, confused and upset. Being all of five, she was not familiar with having apologies rejected; she fought with friends, and they made up quickly. She angered an adult? She would say she was sorry, and that too would resolve itself easily.

That hadn't happened here.

House had given her nothing. For reasons Cuddy could understand, of course; she wanted him to move on, but she _understood_ why he was displeased with Rachel's apology. And caught in the middle, Cuddy could also see why her daughter would be sad or unsure of what to do next.

Then again, even if Cuddy couldn't understand both sides, she'd be in charge of making everyone feel better anyway, right? That was how this was going to go: House and Rachel said and did whatever they wanted to one another, and in between apologies and making up, Cuddy had to be the one to manage them both.

That was how it always went.

Inwardly Cuddy wondered what they would do if she refused to help them along. But even as she thought that, she knew she would never find out. _She_ was the reason these two people needed to get along to begin with, and as such, she had a vested interest in making sure that neither was pushed beyond their limits.

Sometimes though that seemed like an impossible burden to shoulder. Especially when the issue between Rachel and House seemed completely avoidable, as it did today, the responsibility suddenly became something Cuddy wanted to relinquish all together. But upon seeing her daughter face down on the crouch and sniffling, she knew that wasn't an option.

Tentatively she approached Rachel. Her footsteps were soft on the floor, but somehow Rachel knew she was coming.

Abruptly rolling over, a stuffed blue monkey pressed against her chest, Rachel called out for her. "Mommy."

Cuddy sat down on the couch, and predictably within seconds, Rachel crawled into her lap. As she got comfortable, Cuddy wordlessly assessed her daughter.

At first, she'd assumed that Rachel had been sniffling because she was upset, crying even. Now though that didn't seem to be the case. Her cheeks were red, and she looked unhappy, but it didn't seem like she'd been crying.

And she was quick to reveal why.

"You said he wouldn't be mad," Rachel said in a huff. Apparently rather than reflect on her own behavior, she had decided to blame Cuddy for what had happened.

But for her part, Cuddy was willing to take it in stride. Although she knew _none_ of this was her fault, she didn't feel the need to point that out. Frankly she suspected that Rachel already knew that much. And if she didn't, then Cuddy was sure now wasn't the right time to say it.

"Well," she said calmly, forcing herself to focus on the real issue at hand: getting Rachel and House to move past what they'd said to one another. "Sometimes that happens, baby."

"That's stupid," Rachel muttered into the monkey's head.

Cuddy shook her head. "No." Stroking her daughter's hair, she explained, "He's just… sad. You said some things that really hurt his feelings, Rachel."

Rachel immediately replied snottily, "I know that."

"And you apologized like I asked," Cuddy conceded. "And he knows you're sorry," she said, knowing the words were probably a lie. "But he needs _time_. You made him very upset, honey, and that takes time to get over."

The more she spoke, the less of a lie it all felt. No matter what he might claim, she'd been able to see the hurt in his eyes when she'd first dragged Rachel into the kitchen. She'd seen how Rachel's terribly apology had made him feel. He might have chosen to stay angry for _other_ reasons, but Cuddy was sure that he'd been hurt, that her words to Rachel weren't a complete lie.

But whether Rachel believed her or not… well, that was impossible to determine. Because at that point, it didn't even seem like she was listening. As though she hadn't heard a word Cuddy had said, she asked, "Can we play in the snow?"

Cuddy peered down at her in disapproval. "Did you hear what I just said at all?"

Rachel nodded her head. "But I want to go play in the slow."

Immediately Cuddy looked for a reason to stay inside. She could understand why her daughter would want to go out, given how she'd largely been inside all weekend. Yet Cuddy couldn't allow her to be outside. Forget that Rachel had completely ignored everything she'd been saying; the fact that the cold air often triggered Rachel's asthma was more than enough of a reason for Cuddy to keep her indoors.

She didn't want to say that though.

Calling attention to Rachel's physical limitations was not something Cuddy wanted to do. She didn't want her daughter to feel inadequate or lesser than simply because she'd had the misfortune of having a condition. And she didn't want Rachel to become consumed with resentment over her own health, not when House's behavior had already given her enough to think about. But at the same time, Cuddy didn't think she had many alterative reasons to keep Rachel inside.

In fact, she could only come up with the one off the top of her head. And before she even said it, she knew how Rachel was going to react. Preparing for the outburst that would follow, Cuddy held tightly on to Rachel. Her voice even and relaxed, she said, "No, I think we need to stay inside today. We have too much to do before –"

"Like what?" The tone Rachel was using suggested – no, more like flat out _declared_ that she didn't think there was anything else to do.

"You have homework to do."

Strictly speaking "homework" didn't seem like the right term to use. Maybe Cuddy was simply too old to comprehend how much work it really was, but completing a booklet of activities – like listing five things that were green or counting the number of stars colored on a leaf – every month hardly constituted homework in her mind. Then again, given the way Rachel seemed to resent doing it, maybe it did count as homework.

Well, whatever it was, Rachel was intent on resisting the second Cuddy had suggested it. "No, I think we should go outside," she said firmly.

"Rachel, it's the sixteenth. You need to get it done."

"No, I don't."

Cuddy felt like pointing out that of course, it needed to be done. Rachel's school had already sent a letter suggesting that Rachel was too far behind in her class to move on to first grade, and Cuddy wasn't going to let her daughter prove her teachers right out of sheer laziness.

She didn't say that out loud though. Rachel already hated school enough as it was; she didn't need to hear that her own school had already given up hope of her catching up this year. So Cuddy simply told her, "We're not going outside today. We have a party to go tonight, remember? And if we play in the snow now, you're going to be too tired to play with all your friends tonight."

Rachel cuddled her monkey. "Like who?"

"Like Tyler and George," Cuddy said off the top of her head, as she tried to remember the donors who would be there tonight and their children, several of whom went to the same elementary school as Rachel. "Nevaeh and -"

"Then I definitely want to play in the snow," Rachel interrupted.

If it came between building a snowman and playing with stinky Tyler and stupid Neveah, who liked to moo at her whenever they lined up for lunch, then Rachel would rather play in the snow. They weren't her friends, and she didn't want to play with them. They were mean and annoying and dumb, and they didn't like Rachel, but that was okay, Rachel thought, because she didn't like them either!

She liked George, Tyler's older brother, because George was cute and funny. But he must not have liked her very much, because that one time, when she'd asked him to play house, he'd turned red and run away. She'd settled for "marrying" Tyler and George's neighbor, Roberto, but he'd gotten her in trouble when she'd called him a moron. She'd tried to tell him that that was what mommies and daddies did when they were fighting with one another, but then he'd pointed out that she had no daddy, so what did she know? And she'd been ready to punch him when she'd seen George playing house with Madison. And from that moment on, Rachel hadn't liked poopy George much at all.

So she definitely didn't care about playing with them.

Mommy didn't understand that though. She looked confused before saying, "I'm sure you want to play with your friends even more."

Rachel shook her head wildly. "No, I don't."

"Well," Cuddy said with a shrug. "We need to get some of your homework done first. If we have time afterwards, we'll do something fun, okay?"

Rachel was clearly unconvinced. Whining she said, "I don't wanna!"

"No, come on," Cuddy said in a firm voice. Carefully she eased Rachel off her lap and slid the stuffed monkey from Rachel's clenched hands.

"No!"

Cuddy didn't listen. As much as Rachel hated doing homework, not doing it was hardly an option. Cuddy had already pulled enough strings to get her daughter into kindergarten; for weeks, Cuddy had talked to the school board, telling them that, while Rachel had just missed the cut off date for starting kindergarten that year, she was, actually, right on target with her peers who were all a few months older. And eventually they'd let Rachel into the class, because they'd seen the same promise Cuddy did. They were obviously second guessing that choice now, which was precisely why Cuddy was going to push her daughter through this.

Inwardly, she told herself that she hadn't been wrong to do what she'd done. Rachel was clearly smart enough to make it through kindergarten. She just didn't _want _ to do the work. No kid did. But just as Arlene had forced Cuddy to sit down and do homework when she'd wanted to have fun, Cuddy would do the same for her daughter.

She would be far nicer than her mother had ever been, of course (not that that was difficult). She would have sooner died than want to be her mother. But in this, Cuddy didn't think it was wrong to take a page from Arlene's book; Rachel needed the encouragement, and she would get it.

Whether she wanted it or not.

From the beginning though, Rachel made it clear that she definitely did _not_ want it.

Cuddy had sat her down at the dining room table. But the second she'd gone to retrieve Rachel's homework booklet, the little girl had run away as quickly as she'd been able to. Not that it had taken long for Cuddy to find her and drag her back to the table; it hadn't, but that moment had set the tone for the whole event.

And it _was_ an event.

It shouldn't have been a big deal to have Rachel write down her address as required by the first activity. But when Rachel had started to turn her Rs into alpacas (as she _always_ tried to), Cuddy had had to stop her.

"But then they're just boring, stinky letters!"

"That's what we want," Cuddy had said, beheading an alpaca with an eraser. "Boring, stinky letters," she'd muttered under her breath.

From there, things only got worse.

House knew that it had, because no matter where he went in the house, he could hear _them_ fighting. He'd started off in the kitchen but left after the alpaca issue had made the room too noisy for him to concentrate. So he'd headed to his office. But that hadn't been much better, because then he'd heard them arguing over chickens.

He'd just sat down at his desk when Rachel's voice had come screeching over everything else. "It's a chicken!"

And just as quickly as he'd entered the room, he'd gotten up and left. Disappearing further down the hall, he could hear Cuddy explaining, "It is a chicken, but the word starts with an h and ends with an n."

Shutting the bedroom door behind him, he was relieved he couldn't hear Rachel's response. After his less-than-successful conversation with Cuddy in the kitchen, he needed a quiet place to mull over everything he'd been told.

But it only took him a few minutes to realize no amount of thinking was going to help. Really, as he lie on the bed, he couldn't help but think that contemplation was just making him more confused.

He didn't know what to do.

That was the honest truth: he had _no_ idea how to proceed.

He wanted Cuddy. That was all he wanted – _her_. But what did she really want from him?

Well, of course, she wanted him to fix everything. She wanted him to be the one to figure out the parameters of their relationship so she didn't have to do it herself. Those desires though were _so_ broad, so vaguely defined that it was essentially useless to _him_ when it came to fixing the situation.

The depressing thought weighing heavily on him, he slowly rolled over on the bed. His head resting on her pillow, he hugged it to his body tightly. He would never say she was more trouble than she was worth, but their relationship _did_ seem to cause a lot of problems.

And handling Rachel seemed to be the biggest issue of them all.

He used to think that things would be easier without her. For sure, Cuddy still believed that he thought that. But actually… he didn't think that anymore. Strange though it was, he had become used to the idea of Rachel being part of his life. There were times where he forgot that; of _course_ there were. Overall though, he had accepted her presence, and he had come to appreciate that Cuddy would have never been truly happy without her. And regardless of what he'd envisioned for himself, he knew that Rachel was a part of his life now.

What he was less sure of was what his role should be in _hers_. Cuddy tried to make it sound like it was simple, but clearly it wasn't. He couldn't be Rachel's _friend_; friends didn't bang your mom. Cuddy didn't want him to be Rachel's father. If anything she seemed against that. And she was even _less_ in favor of him standing off to the side and being removed from the situation.

So what exactly did that leave him with? If he wasn't Rachel's friend, wasn't her father, wasn't some random guy she didn't have to know, what was he supposed to be?

He had no idea.

But Cuddy had made it more than clear that he needed to figure something out. Perhaps out of frustration with him, she was wiping her hands of all responsibility. She was leaving it to him to find the right way to proceed. Which was probably smart, he conceded silently; making him take care of it meant that she would never have to blame herself when it didn't go right.

And, House thought darkly, it _wouldn't_ go right.

It couldn't.

Cuddy's boundaries with this thing were ever moving and invisible. Whatever suited her in that moment was what she said she wanted, and it was never easy for House to predict what she wanted at any given moment. Did she want him to involve himself in Rachel's life? Did she want him to back off? At any time of day, the answer to that changed.

Knowing that, he suddenly felt that maybe it was a good thing that she had taken herself out of the equation. No doubt she would throw a fit when she felt he did something wrong, but perhaps he could work all of that to his advantage.

To get what _he_ wanted.

Cuddy clearly didn't know what it was she needed from the situation. She was looking to him to convince her of the right path to take. That was why she'd shoved responsibility on to him. And for her part, Rachel was still young enough that she would accept or could be manipulated to accept whatever kind of relationship was chosen for her.

So…

It was up to him to decide.

Which meant he could do whatever he wanted.

He could proceed any way he wished, as long as he was convincing enough to drag both girls with him down that path. And he had no doubt that he could manipulate both of them. He just didn't know which path it was he should take.

At that thought, House snorted into Cuddy's pillow. It could never be simple. Here, he could do whatever he felt like; she'd effectively given him free rein, but he didn't know what he wanted to do.

The only thing he was sure he _knew_ was that he needed to make a decision – and _quick_. Cuddy passing all of the hard work on to him signaled that she was at the end of her rope. She'd tried to find a solution for them all and failed, and so, helpless, she was now asking him to do it for her. And since this involved her daughter, she would never ask him to get involved unless she felt she had no other choice. Which meant that, if he _didn't_ figure out a good solution, their relationship was done.

But House tried not to think about _that_.

Losing Cuddy was literally his worst nightmare, and allowing himself to mentally go down the road would only make him crazed with fear. And right now, what he needed – what they _all_ needed was for him to be as rational about this as possible.

So he forced himself to be as detached as he knew how to be.

Focusing only on the logistics of the matter, he could see almost instantly that remaining detached wasn't the right way to do things. It had been his modus operandi for years, but that seemed foolish to him now. If the goal was to keep himself in Cuddy's bed, clearly bonding with the kid would make it harder for Mommy to toss him on the street. And if he hadn't realized that before –

No, he thought immediately. Of _course_ he'd realized that fact long before now. Truth be told, he'd always recognized that making nice with Rachel could secure his spot in the house. That he hadn't ever acted on that instinct had nothing to do with some sense of decency and everything to do with his unwavering belief in the obvious: no kid should be forced to be around him.

Yet again, he knew that sticking to that idea was impossible in this case. Avoiding Rachel might have been to _her_ benefit, but it would no longer be to _his._ Cuddy wasn't going to let it.

She was essentially letting him choose which direction they took, but not embracing Rachel on some level was not an option in Cuddy's mind. She would control that much of the decision. She _had. _

And to even entertain the idea of staying away from Rachel was suicide, House thought.

Even if it were better for _her_ that he did.

And it _was_ better for Rachel that he be uninvolved. Of that he was… completely and undeniably convinced.

Cuddy herself had said it. She'd had to protect Rachel from him. In truth, he couldn't remember a specific instance where that had happened (other than today, of course); he'd always believed he was bad for Rachel, but in his mind, there was not a single moment where that had been blatantly true.

Which made it that much worse, didn't it?

He didn't even know when he was hurting her.

Again, House would never pretend like he was a good person for her to be around. He knew he wasn't. But all this time, he'd thought he had done a decent job of avoiding harming Rachel. He'd thought that he'd been nice enough, helpful enough. He'd changed diapers and soiled sheets, cooked dinner and watched her on the occasion that Cuddy had had to work late. He'd never let himself emotionally become attached to her, preferring to keep Rachel at arm's length for both their sakes. But he hadn't ever thought he'd done something _wrong_.

Well, all right, this weekend had had some awful moments. However, the weekend not withstanding, he felt that he'd been… good enough when it came to Rachel. He'd kept his distance, but he hadn't ever thought that he'd been downright cruel or callous towards her.

He'd been wrong though.

Cuddy had said as much. And though it was difficult for him to accept that, he didn't doubt that she was right. Regardless of his opinion, he trusted her enough to believe that she wasn't lying – to _know_ that she wasn't lying. If she were saying that he'd hurt Rachel on occasion, there was only reason for that assertion.

It was true.

Because of that, it was even more difficult for him to act on what he knew he needed to do now.

He needed to form some sort of relationship with Rachel.

That much was obvious to him, the more he thought about it. Staying away wasn't an option. Being a father figure or a friend was problematic, for obvious reasons, but he needed to take a step in that direction. There was no other choice.

Tracing the lines on his forehead with his thumb, he realized that he didn't need to decide what he wanted to be. Becoming Rachel's friend or her… _father _(even mentally, he couldn't help but stumble over the word) wasn't something that would happen over night. It would be a relationship he needed to cultivate, and that would take time – _lots_ of time, given how terrible at relationship building he was. And that meant this wasn't a decision he needed to make right now. It _wasn't_ a choice he could make right now. That was momentarily beyond his control.

All he could do now was… take some sort of step in the friendly, fatherly direction.

Of course, putting it that way, he instantly wanted to back off. He was neither prepared nor eager to change things with Rachel. It was easy to say that he needed to attempt a relationship with her, but it was anything but simple to actually make that happen.

Especially for someone as screwed up as _him_.

Feeling defeated he sighed into Cuddy's pillow. Rationally he understood that failure wasn't an option. But a man like him… was _bound_ to fail. Even if he told himself otherwise, even if he could delude himself into thinking he had a chance, he knew what he was, how he was. He was going to hurt her, no matter how much he tried not to do that.

And the truly terrible part about it was that…he was okay with that. He didn't want to hurt Rachel; he definitely didn't want to screw things up. But he accepted that he would have to move in that direction. She would inevitably be hurt, but he needed to press on regardless.

And he _would_.

As much as he'd wanted to keep Rachel out of it, he could no longer continue to do that. Though he'd never wanted to hurt her, he would by allowing himself to get closer to her. Because as wrong as he knew it was, when it came down to choosing between protecting her or getting what he wanted, he was _always_ going to choose himself.

And truth be told, thinking of it like that made it all the more easier to do it. It was him or her, he reminded himself. He could either push ahead and do what needed to be done or lose Cuddy now; that was what he was essentially choosing between: a life with Cuddy or a life without her.

It was clear which one he wanted for himself, and selfishly he didn't care at that moment about anyone else.

Obviously he wouldn't go out of his way to harm Rachel. He would do his best, as he thought he always _had_, to… not completely screw her up.

He wouldn't go out of his way to cause harm. He knew it was inevitable, but at no point would House actually seek out a way to put her in therapy. He would just... do what he had to do.

And if that sounded vague, it was because, for the life of him, he didn't exactly know what to do. He'd bought Rachel the monkey earlier, made her lunch... but did that really count for something? Was that a step he'd unknowingly taken towards being her friend? If it wasn't, what exactly did he need to do to make it count?

Hell if he knew, he thought. He was _completely_ out of his league when it came to Rachel. But clearly, he needed to figure out the answer to those questions, if he didn't want Cuddy to give him the boot.

Without even a moment's hesitation, he reached for his phone. Instinctively he recognized that these were questions he would never be good at answering. He could understand human behavior and comprehend how human nature worked... but in an incredibly cynical, detached way. It had never been his forte to take that knowledge and apply it to _building_ relationships. Using it to get what he wanted? Sure, but he couldn't be Machiavellian with this particular pursuit. Even if some part of his core understood just how manipulative it all really would be, he knew that it, at least, had to _seem_ genuine. His actions had to scream, "I'm doing this, because I want to get to know you" and _not_ "I'm doing this, because I really like fucking your mom." And in House's mind, there was only one person who could help him achieve that.

Wilson.

No one else had perfected the sweet exterior like Wilson had, especially when it came to wooing women. He'd been married more times than Lindsay Lohan had been arrested, and somehow he'd still managed to have a friendly relationship with each of his exes. He'd been caught doing many, many, _many_ awful things with House, but again, Wilson had always walked away from those situations unscathed. Even when all signs pointed to "bastard," Wilson seemed to manage to escape that label each and every time. And right about now, House needed a little of that charisma to wear off on him.

Wilson would, of course, give him all the ideas in the world. Under the pretense of guidance, Wilson would tell him all he needed to hear – which was why this plan was perfect.

But House hadn't even pressed the number that automatically dialed Wilson's cell when inspiration hit.

True, that feeling could have simply been the start of a migraine; Rachel's scream, "I hate this!" was certainly loud and shrill enough to make House wince. However, it also gave him an idea.

Tossing his phone down on the bed, he could mentally envision the steps he needed to take.

He had to do something nice to or with Rachel to get Cuddy to back off. Rachel had been complaining for the last half hour at least about having to do homework. And she'd been whining even longer than that about going outside and building a snowman. In fact, she'd been bitching about it all week, it seemed. So…

If he distracted Cuddy long enough, asked her to find something for him maybe… he would have an opening to nab Rachel. Cuddy would be busy doing something else, so he could jam the kid into her snowsuit and shove her out the door. Rachel would get to go outside, which would shut her up. She wouldn't have to do her homework, which would _really_ make her happy and smooth over her obvious irritation over the fact that he hadn't read to her.

Cuddy would be pissed, no doubt. Precisely the moment she realized she'd been played, her panties would get all in a knot, and he'd have to deal with that. But, quickly shoving aside the mental image of undoing said knot with his teeth, he realized that she would be easily mollified in this case.

After all, _she'd_ been the one to force the issue. So she couldn't complain that he'd done exactly what she wanted. Oh, she would try; obviously she would try to complain. But arrogantly he felt confident in his ability to shut her up. One word from her, and he would point out that she'd left it to him to fix things, that if she wanted things to have resolved differently, she should have handled it herself. She might try to weasel her way around that point, but she wouldn't succeed. And he knew she wouldn't be a problem.

Standing up, House headed for the bedroom door. He didn't exactly know how he would get Cuddy away from Rachel, but he realized he couldn't take the time to figure it out. The noises from the dining room indicated both Rachel and Cuddy were beyond frustrated. They were nearing that point where nothing could be learned and they'd just start fighting.

A novice would say that that was a natural way to separate the two from each other, providing a clear path for House to take Rachel out. But in his mind, his plan would be more effective if _he_ were the one to save her from doing work. She would appreciate it more that way, appreciate _him_ more for being the one to take her out of that situation.

So he moved as fast as his leg would allow him. But even as he walked down the hallway, he could hear over his uneven footsteps, "Stop whining, Rachel. We have to do this."

"I don't want to."

He could hear Cuddy's ragged sigh. And he wasn't surprised when she said after a moment, her voice much softer, "All right…. I think it's time for a break."

"Yay!"

"_No_," Cuddy said, quickly cutting off the celebration. "I'm going to go make some tea. _You're_ going to _sit_ here, and when I get back," she warned. "You are _going_ to get through the rest of this page. No whining. _No_ complaining."

House could hear her stalk off towards the kitchen.

At that point, it almost seemed too good to be true. She was leaving without him needing a distraction, without letting Rachel off the hook…. It was everything he could have wanted and then some. A sense of impending doom made his toes and fingers tingle, but he pushed the feeling away, knowing that he would never have a better moment than this.

Slowing his pace down, he walked as carefully as he could the rest of the way. He didn't want Cuddy to hear him coming. And he must have succeeded, because she didn't return from the kitchen. Even as he cautiously poked his head into the dining room, he didn't hear her move or do anything alarming.

Rachel, on the other hand, noticed him immediately. Perhaps sensing an out, she practically jumped out of her seat. Literally, before he'd even had a chance to motion her over, she was scrambling towards him.

"Shh," House whispered as she moved noisily towards him. "Unless you want Mommy to hear, be quiet."

She looked up at him in awe, as though hearing the words made her realize how right he was. Without uttering a single thing, she nodded her head.

Clasping her hand in his, he silently pulled her towards the closet in the front hall. Rachel followed obediently, but she clearly had no idea what was going on. Her eyes were trained on him with equal parts curiosity and suspicion. When he opened the closet and grabbed the hot pink snowsuit that had sat there, barely used, since the beginning of winter, curiosity gave way completely to suspicion.

"Put it on," he told her, handing it out to her.

But she didn't take it.

"You wanna go outside and play in the snow or not?" he asked in a hushed voice.

She nodded her head. "But –"

She didn't get to finish the sentence; anything she might have said was silenced by him stuffing her in the suit. And she must have gotten the hint, because she willingly held out each arm for him to stuff into the puffy arms of the suit.

After he zipped her up, he reached into the closet. Grabbing her coat, he handed it to her. "Put this on."

Rachel quietly took the coat. As she struggled to put it on, he reached back in the closet and grabbed her snow boots. He jammed them on her feet as quickly as he could, which wasn't very easy, since she was squirming about trying to zip up her jacket.

"I got it," he told her, pushing her hands away. Truthfully he could understand why she was having trouble. The puffiness of her snowsuit and the thick material of her coat made it hard to get the teeth of her zipper to line up right. And if he'd left the job to her, she probably wouldn't have had enough strength to do it herself.

Not that she seemed all that grateful for his help. As soon as he finished, she said, "I can do it myself."

"Well, I just did it for you, so it doesn't matter," he replied snottily.

Instantly he regretted his tone. This was supposed to be an attempt to get along with her, he reminded himself. It might have come naturally to be sarcastic or dismissive or... some other negative adjective, but it wasn't going to help his cause. Even if she deserved it (which he realized, unfortunately, that she didn't), he couldn't respond that way. It wasn't going to get him what he wanted in the end, and he knew that.

Forcing himself to mentally take a step back, he tried to smooth over the moment by telling her, "Let's just get this over with."

"I'm hot," Rachel complained as House tied a scarf around her neck.

Stuffing a hot pink hat shaped like a rabbit on her head, he could appreciate what she was saying. She looked overstuffed, covered from head to toe in winter clothes. Like a Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man who had been doused in pink paint, she seemed incredibly encumbered by layers and down-filled clothing. But he couldn't help that.

Cuddy was bound to be annoyed that he let Rachel out at all. There was no way he was also going to deal with the fallout of not having her properly dressed for the weather. Well, at least for not having her dressed according to _Cuddy's_ definition of what proper winter attire was, he mentally corrected. Because God only knew that her definition wasn't anywhere near what sane people thought was okay.

But in a way, he was beginning to assume that he couldn't avoid that part of the fight. If he wanted to get Rachel outside before Cuddy discovered them, he needed to work fast. But at this point, he doubted he could work fast enough to get the kid fully dressed.

As though just thinking that triggered the event itself, he suddenly heard Cuddy. Her footsteps were soft; in his mind, she was carrying two mugs of hot tea in her hands, and she was afraid of spilling. But she was slowly moving back towards the dining room. "Rachel," she said softly, as though expecting her daughter to reply immediately.

It would only be a matter of seconds before Cuddy realized what was wrong. And House knew he needed to get Rachel out the door.

_Now_.

Grabbing her mittens and her, he pulled her towards the front door.

"Rachel," Cuddy said loudly. She'd clearly just realized her daughter wasn't patiently waiting in her seat for more homework fun.

House wrenched the front door open as two mugs filled with hot tea clanked loudly against the dining room table.

"Rachel, this isn't funny." In his head, he could picture her glancing underneath the table and realizing she wasn't there.

And then there were more footsteps – heading this way.

Panicked, House shoved Rachel out of the front door (he could see her falling in a flash of hot pink against white snow) and tossed the mittens in his hands behind her. She would be able to put them on herself, he thought in the back of his mind.

The footsteps practically behind him, House started to shut the door.

"What are you doing?" Cuddy asked suddenly.

Busted House turned around. Like a deer caught in headlights, he wasn't sure how to respond or what to say. Normally he would have a lie on the tip of his tongue. But it was hard to know what lie to use now, considering he didn't even know how much she'd seen. "I..."

"You're leaving," she said with dismay.

Had she seen Rachel, surely, House thought, she would have mentioned that. Since she hadn't said that, that could only mean that Rachel had managed to escape unseen.

"Yeah," he lied calmly.

Cuddy frowned. "Without your coat?"

He shrugged like it was no big deal. "Going for a drive," he supplied. "I just... want to clear my head."

It seemed like a lie that would make sense, given what had happened earlier. Between Rachel saying she hated him and Cuddy inadvertently accusing him of being like his father (which _still_ stung), it wasn't out of the question that he would want time alone. He _had_ wanted time alone.

But if that seemed understandable to her, she didn't say. If anything, her frown just seemed to deepen, and all she told him was, "Stay here."

He didn't move as she disappeared down the hallway for a moment. But he was tempted to when he saw her stop in front of the closet he'd just rooted through. Surely she saw that it was a mess, that the bright pink objects belonging to Rachel were missing.

Yet... none of that seemed to register with Cuddy. Maybe she simply didn't expect Rachel to try to run outside or for him to help her escape. Maybe Cuddy was so focused on his apparent need to get out that Rachel's didn't register in her mind at all. Whatever the reason, she simply reached for his coat in the opened closet and retrieved it.

Returning to him with it, she said calmly, "You need a coat."

He didn't take it. "I was just going to drive for –"

"Take it anyway."

He did cautiously and slowly slipped it on.

"Do you have your keys?"

House didn't, but he wasn't sure if he should lie. If he did and she caught him, she might become suspicious.

Well… possibly _more_ suspicious.

So he answered with the vague, non-committal "I think so."

She glanced over at the coffee table by the front door. It was where he usually kept his keys, and since he hadn't had any plans to go anywhere, they were, of course, _right_ there.

Without saying a word, she reached over and plucked them off the table. When she handed them to him, he lied again. "Have a lot on my mind…."

It was obvious she believed him. Her hand immediately reaching up to cup his cheek, she said quietly, "Maybe you should stay here then. Go lay down and –"

"Listen to you and Rachel –"

"We'll be quiet."

"Cause that's worked out so well so far."

A saner person wouldn't have read into that statement. Cuddy, not being entirely sane and knowing him far too well, though _did_.

Immediately she pulled her hand away from him. "She has to learn this –"

"And forcing her, so that we may all _hear_ how to spell hen –"

"Fine. Just go, House," she said in frustration.

He was about to when he realized that he couldn't open the door with Cuddy standing right there. If he did, in all likelihood, she would see Rachel.

Thinking of a distraction, he offered her, "She was heading towards her bedroom a few minutes ago."

The irritation drained from her face, and he felt a bang of guilt when she said, "Thank you."

After she'd headed down the hallway, he slipped outside.

Predictably Rachel was standing there, mittens still on the ground. She was scowling. "You pushed me."

He bent down and picked up the forgotten mittens. "Let's put these on," he told her in an even voice. But she didn't stick out her hands. "Rachel, come on."

"You _pushed_ me."

House sighed. This wasn't what he envisioned happening, not at all. But she clearly wasn't going to move past it until he apologized. "Look, kid, I didn't want your mom to catch us. I'm sorry."

Her reply was instantaneous. "I bit my tongue." She held out her hands for him anyway.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked as she slipped her fingers into the mittens.

"No."

He stood up. "Then go play." Rachel didn't move, however, so he added, "Before Mommy realizes we're out here."

The mere mention of her mother seemed to be enough to get her in the mood to play. Yet she barely took a step before she hesitated.

Stopping in her tracks, she looked back at him. He could practically feel her measured look, her eyes assessing him intently. And it made him uncomfortable – to watch her peering back at him with increasing intensity.

For the life of him, he didn't know what she wanted or why she seemed so interested in him all of a sudden. So he was surprised when she said sincerely, "I'm sorry I said I hated you."

He was stunned.

Truly, he was shocked; he hadn't expected an apology – certainly not after the first one had gone so horribly. He'd just assumed that she would behave as Cuddy had insinuated: Rachel had had no clue how hurtful her words had been, so any apology he would get would be, at best, half-assed.

But this wasn't.

She meant it.

That was the thought on his mind when she latched onto his leg. Hugging the limb, she was warm even through the thick layer of jeans he was wearing. "I shouldn't have said that," she admitted, her voice muffled, because she'd buried her face into his good thigh.

And he could see [even more] clearly then what his problem with all of this would be. He could do nice things for Rachel, and he could try to get along with her. But emotionally... he would always be inadequate. He would never know what to say in these situations or how to react so that she would understand what he felt.

He'd never been good at that. It might have been easy to point to Cuddy and claim that he'd obviously found some decent way of communicating with her, but he knew better than that. He'd always been ineffectual and bad, and if he'd managed to maintain a relationship with Cuddy, it had everything to do with _her_ ability to understand intuitively what he needed or what he meant.

Rachel didn't have that. And it was wrong to expect any differently. He knew that much, acknowledged that if he wanted her to understand him, _he _had to make that happen. He couldn't depend on anyone else.

But he was awkward in dealing with the moment. Lamely letting his hand rest atop Rachel's head, he patted her crown much like you would a dog. Or in this case, a rabbit, as his palm was pressed between two hot pink ears that stuck straight out of the top of her fleece hat.

"Thanks," he said with equal unease.

He thought that was enough. What else was he supposed to say? Rachel was still hugging his leg like there was something left to be done. If that were true though, he had no idea what that was. He'd accepted the apology... touched her. What else was there?

"Why don't you go play?" he started to say. Fearing that perhaps his tone was too harsh, he choked the words down and started over. "It's okay, Rachel."

She looked up at him finally. He couldn't tell if she was relieved or not. He would have liked to think so, but his own anxiety over their closeness made it hard for him to read the emotions on her face.

"Play," he told her quietly. "Once Mommy knows where you are, she's going to want you to finish your homework."

Rachel knew he was right about that. Mommy had told her to stay in the chair, but Rachel hadn't listened. She didn't want to do homework. She didn't like it – the way Mommy made her write boring Rs or acted like everything was easy when it _wasn't_. And when House had brought her outside, Rachel hadn't refused, cause she'd wanted to go outside even though she had homework to do.

She knew it was wrong. She knew it was bad to do something her mother hadn't approved of, and as soon as Mommy found out, Rachel knew she would be in trouble. She'd have to go to timeout and apologize _and_ work in that stupid book. So she knew House was right. She should play now before she couldn't have any fun.

"Okay," she said in agreement. But she didn't run off right away. Instead, as she pulled away from him completely, she asked, "Do you know how to make a snowman?"

House glanced around them. Certainly, there was enough snow on the ground to make a legion of snowmen. However, much of that snow had fallen weeks ago and had ample time to melt and refreeze. From what he'd seen, it would be far too icy to make a snowman out of that.

There was more snow falling from the sky. Feeling it hit his face though in large wet flakes, House could tell that just skimming the top layer of snow on the ground wouldn't work either. It was _too_ wet and wouldn't hold together well.

"I do," he answered finally. "But we need snow that's gonna stick together. This won't."

For whatever reason, Rachel didn't believe him. "I can make it stick," she said confidently.

His first instinct was to disagree with her, but really, he thought almost immediately, what was the point? Like he was, like her mother was, Rachel was stubborn. She wasn't going to just listen to him, because he told her that it wouldn't work. She needed to see that for herself.

"Okay," he said, capitulating easily. "You'll need to make a snowball about this big." He held his hands out in front of him. His fingers curled into big Cs to indicate that she would need a fairly large ball of snow to get started. "Do that, and if it stays together, then we'll roll it up."

Rachel squatted down, her arms opening wide. Eagerly she scooped up as much snow as she could off of the porch.

It disintegrated the second she tried to pack it together.

Standing up once more, she looked at House. "I'll be right back," she told him. And off she went, searching for the perfect snow.

He didn't stop her or try to dissuade her from that. If she wanted to spend the rest of her time outside trying to make snowballs, that was her choice. He certainly wasn't going to intervene.

Then again, if he'd wanted to, he wouldn't have had much of a choice. Rachel had just started grabbing at snow around one of the bushes when Cuddy finally made an appearance.

From the way the front door was _violently_ wrenched open behind him, House knew he was screwed.

He was too afraid to look back and watch Cuddy come outside. But he didn't need to; he could _feel_ the heat radiating from the glare aimed at him. He could _hear_ her shut the door loudly.

Involuntarily stiffening, he waited for her to say something to him. Or rather, every fiber of his being anticipated her screeching.

However, she simply came and stood by him. She didn't speak at all. Oh, she was furious. Under no circumstances could he take her silence for calmness. That would have been a grave mistake on his part.

Which was why he was quick to apologize. "I'm sorry."

"You could have told me," she said in a low, irritated voice.

There was a dangerous edge to her tone and underneath that, a hint of panic he thought he heard. It was not hard then to imagine that she'd feared the worst when she'd been unable to find Rachel. Maybe the idea – that Rachel had run away – hadn't fully coalesced in Cuddy's mind. But there was no denying that the thought had niggled in the back of her consciousness, and her anger was the product of that unbearable idea.

"I couldn't," he disagreed, trying to be as even keeled as he could be while telling her that she was wrong. "If I'd told you, you would have either made her come back inside or you wouldn't, and then Rachel would be glad _you'd_ let her play."

A smirk played on the corners of her mouth. Her cheeks pink from the cold, he could see the air she exhaled when she scoffed. "This is about getting credit?"

He turned his head to look at her more carefully. "I don't think you'd disagree that I need –"

"You still could have told me."

"No," he insisted. House paused before sighing. "Look, I would have told you if I could have. It's not…."

He could hear how inadequate his words sounded. But when he reached out to touch her, she shot him a look that made him pull his hand back.

"I wasn't trying to hurt you or… scare you."

Her hair whipped about in the wind as she forcefully met his gaze with her own. "I wasn't _scared_."

"Either way. It wasn't my plan to pull one over on you. But _she_ would have made it all about you if you were involved." House knew how childish that sounded, so he explained further. "It would have become about what you did, how you let her go out." He sensed the objection on the tip of her tongue and hastily added, "And there's nothing wrong with that. But she's not in doubt about how _you_ feel about her."

This time when he reached for her, she didn't resist being pulled into his embrace. By no means had she moved on. She was still waiting for a full explanation and wouldn't forgive or forget until he had given her one.

If she'd allowed him to wrap his arms around her at all, it had more to do with the freezing temperatures than anything else.

"All right," she said through chattering teeth. As she laid her head down on his chest, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of his coat. God only knew her own jacket wasn't doing much to ward off the chill in the air. "I'm listening."

"You were right," he admitted, his hands moving up and down her back to warm her up. "I screwed up. I've been… hoping you would take care of this, so I wouldn't have to."

"I've noticed."

She could feel him bristle at her dry tone, and that struck her as odd. The remark hadn't been intended as an accusation. She hadn't said it in the hopes of hurting him. But he was reacting like she'd been doing something other than offering a quick quip. And that was anything but normal for him.

Pulling back a little, she looked up at him. "I didn't –"

He let go of her, so that he could wave her off. In all honesty, she wished he _hadn't_ done that. His body heat had been a nice way of warding off the cold, and now she had no protection against the wind.

But all thoughts of the weather were promptly when he said, "In my head, it made sense to stay out of it. I don't know." He shook his head as though what he was saying wasn't exactly what he had in mind. "Look," he said after a moment, frustration creeping into his voice. "I'm not good with kids – we both know that."

"I –"

"You said it yourself."

"That's not what I meant," Cuddy insisted as speedily as her lips could form the words. "I wasn't –"

"I thought if I didn't do anything, I could avoid hurting her. I thought it would be better for everyone that way; you wouldn't think I was using her to get to you," he admitted carefully. As much as he knew this deserved an explanation, it was hard to go through his train of thought when he could see, in his periphery, Rachel.

She wasn't paying attention at all to him. Had she, she would have noticed that her mother had come outside. That Rachel hadn't come running over here like an obedient dog who'd realized it had been caught doing something naughty meant that she hadn't looked over this way. And given the way her gaze was trained on the snow in front of her, it wasn't hard to believe that her focus was elsewhere.

However, House knew that at some point she would either find good snow and come running back or wouldn't find any and come running back anyway. And when she did, he didn't want her to hear any of this conversation.

"But the only thing worse than having you think _that_ is making you think that I don't want this," he said, looking at Cuddy intently. "I want this to work too." His body shifted in discomfort. "More than anything."

He could see in her posture that he had done it; he'd earned her forgiveness. Those words spoken, her anger, which had been so prominent before, melted away. Her features softened, and an understanding, warm smile replaced the cold smirk she'd donned only moments ago.

"I love you," he added. He supposed he was campaigning too hard by tossing in that line, especially considering he'd already clearly resolved the argument. But he also knew that it was a fact that couldn't hurt him.

"I love you too."

She looked like she was about to kiss him, which was never a bad thing. Yet she didn't even get a chance to take more than a step towards him. Predictably it was at that moment that Rachel came running back.

"I finded one!" she screamed, carrying a snowball that was nearly half the size House had told her to get. "It's huge!"

Her obvious delight disappeared the second she saw Cuddy.

Stopping in her tracks, Rachel asked seriously, "Am I in trouble?"

"Lucky for you," Cuddy answered in a voice that bordered on stern. "House has convinced me that you've earned a break –"

"Yay!"

"_However_, if you don't have your inhaler…."

How she planned on ending that sentence, House would never know. At that moment, while they were talking about Rachel's inhaler, he felt the strange weight of it in his jeans' pocket. He figured he must have forgotten to take it back out after their trip to the store.

"I got it," he said, pulling it out for Cuddy to see.

She was obviously unimpressed. Turning her attention back to Rachel, she asked, "Did you ask him if he had it?" Rachel hesitated then shook her head. "Rachel, you know you need to –"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," House interrupted. He understood why Cuddy would be concerned; he knew that it was important for Rachel to carry her rescue inhaler – or to make sure someone nearby had one – when she was going outside in winter. But he hadn't brought Rachel out here for her mother to nag her. The last thing he wanted was for his efforts to be forgotten because of a petty fight. "She knows. I know – I _knew_, so it's not an issue."

Before Cuddy could even protest, he told Rachel, "That's not big enough. It needs to be twice as big."

"Okay," she replied hurriedly. She ran off as fast as she could go in the snow. Obviously she wasn't going to wait around for her mother to stop her.

Which left Cuddy with no other option than to turn her irritation on to him.

Glaring at him, she said, "Don't do that."

"What's that?" he asked snidely. "Stop you from ruining what could otherwise be an enjoyable experience?"

She clenched her jaw. "Well I apologize for bringing common sense into the equation, but Rachel _cannot_ afford to forget –"

"Let's pretend this isn't my first day on the job," he said knowingly. "Let's assume for a second that I get what's at stake and have lived here long enough to know when the thing you _think_ is bothering you _isn't_ the thing that's bothering you."

Cuddy brushed falling snow off her cheeks. She was sure he would take the act to mean she was unnerved by his assessment, but he couldn't have been further from the truth. She had no idea what he meant, which made it difficult to be offended, upset, or anything else.

"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about."

"House, I have _no_ clue what you're talking about. This isn't an act."

His eyes roamed over her body as he openly looked for some tell that she was lying. When he couldn't find one, because she _wasn't_ lying, he asked, "You think it's a coincidence that you're obsessing and overreacting –"

"I'm not overreacting to anything," she said calmly.

"_Overreacting_ to every slight –"

"Rachel not knowing if her inhaler was nearby is not _slight_," Cuddy snapped louder than she wanted.

Both she and House glanced over to Rachel then to make sure she hadn't heard. It was clear she hadn't; she was feebly trying to pack more snow together – and _failing_.

"Relax," he said, pulling Cuddy's attention back to him. "Like I said, I know what's at stake. _However_, you're unnecessarily getting agitated and working yourself into a frenzy over things that don't require that level of hysteria."

She glowered. "I'm not hysterical."

He nodded his head once. "Not usually. But you are today. You are _now_. That's not coincidental."

It killed her to have to admit it, but she still had no idea what he was trying to say. True, there was a part of her that seemed to instantly understand that his accusation was an offensive one. But he was being so vague, never giving her a reason why her behavior was predictable or intention, that she didn't get it.

He opened his mouth, thankfully (or maybe not given what she was sure he would say) to explain further. He didn't have a chance to say anything, however.

Before he could, Cuddy felt a tug on her coat. "Mommy."

Rachel was by her side. The snowball that had been in her hand must have disintegrated, or perhaps she'd set it down, because she didn't have anything with her now.

"I have to pee. _Now_."

The urgency in her voice left no question in Cuddy's mind as to how badly her daughter needed to use the bathroom. It was clear that Rachel had held off as long as she could, and she couldn't wait any longer.

"Okay," Cuddy said immediately. "Let's get inside."

She didn't give Rachel the chance to take a single step; not trusting her daughter's speed, Cuddy reached down and picked her up. By the time she turned around, House had already opened the front door for them.

"Thank you."

But that gratitude was lost in the rush to undress Rachel. Wordlessly Cuddy set Rachel down in the hallway as House closed the door behind them. And then without even saying so, both he and Cuddy went about stripping Rachel of her winter clothes.

Their hands worked in a frenzied pace, removing mittens, scarf, jacket, and boots. But it seemingly wasn't happening fast enough for Rachel. "Mommy, I have to –"

"Just a couple more seconds," Cuddy said, pulling down Rachel's snowsuit.

"I can't wait."

"Well, you're going to have to."

Rachel let out a high-pitched whine. "Hurry."

It was unnecessary for her to say that; within seconds she was freed completely from her winter attire, and immediately she sprinted off down the hallway.

Surrounded by fleece and puffy pants, Cuddy looked to House. But while she was exasperated, he seemed amused.

"Is it your turn to get undressed, little girl?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

It was a ridiculous proposition. They were standing in the hallway in their winter coats. Rachel was probably somewhere between the hall and the bathroom, peeing all over the floor. Mentally, already Cuddy was prepared to clean urine off of tile, but here he was, acting as though now were the right time to throw her a line like that.

Then again it must have been, because in spite of herself, she found herself chuckling. The smile on her face felt foreign, and she eagerly gripped onto his forearm as he moved closer to her. "I only need to take my coat off," she said teasingly, as he started to undo the buttons on her coat.

His mouth brushing against her ear, he whispered hoarsely, "That's not exactly true."

Her jacket slipped off her shoulders. And though she should have been worried about the white wool falling on the floor, where it could easily pick up dirt, she didn't think about that at all. Her focus was entirely on him – or more specifically on his _mouth_.

Her hands moving to cup his cheeks, she pulled him into a deep kiss. His lips meeting hers with equal passion, she sighed into him. This was what she needed right now, more than anything. His kiss, his lips, his tongue – all of it working against her own to create heat between them – it was all she could have wanted in that moment.

But in typical House fashion, he was determined to give her more. His fingers curling under the hem of her sweater, his fingertips slowly meandered towards her breast. Her skin was warm to the touch, and he took his time, letting his palm brush against the flat plane of her stomach.

And that was where it ended.

Where it _had_ to end.

Because it was right as he reached the lacy bottom of her bra, that Rachel shouted, "Mommy!"

Reluctantly Cuddy pulled away from him. Sighing she looked at him apologetically. "I have to see what she wants."

He shrugged like it was no big deal, but she knew that he had to have been as frustrated as she was. Of course, _that_ was his own fault. He had to have known, just as she had, that this would happen. So as she left him there, she refused to feel bad.

Besides, was there any doubt in either of their minds that they would have sex again – and _soon_?

It might have been annoying to have to stop, but they would have other chances. At least, that was what she insisted on telling herself.

But as she came across Rachel, any and all thought of sex was promptly forgotten.

Rachel was crying. She was sitting on the toilet, which meant that she'd at least made it _there_. But Cuddy could _also_ see that her pants were still on.

Rachel didn't have to say anything. No explanation was necessary. It was obvious that she had waited too long to say something and had made the choice to pee in her pants to avoid having an accident on the floor.

"I'm sorry," she cried, perhaps sensing that Cuddy had figured out what had happened.

Stepping further into the bathroom, Cuddy tried to console her. "It's okay." She leaned down and kissed Rachel on the forehead. Running her fingers through Rachel's hair, she repeated, "It's okay."

Rachel remained unconvinced and seemingly inconsolable. "I didn't – I thought…." And then her sobs seemed to get even louder when she said, "I just wanted my snowman."

Cuddy stepped away and shifted toward the bathtub. Her intentions had been to wait closer to tonight's party to give Rachel a bath. Understanding that last minute messes were hardly uncommon, she'd hoped to put off getting Rachel clean until Cuddy was sure she couldn't get dirty again. But that plan was gone now; Rachel had literally pissed all over it.

It was a thought that would have been amusing if not for the mess Cuddy now faced.

She stopped the tub and turned on the faucet. Water loudly rushing into the basin, she turned back to Rachel. "I'm going to go get something to put your clothes in, and then we'll clean you up. You need to stay here."

Rachel nodded her head but say nothing.

"I mean it, honey, just stay where you are. Don't get up." Cuddy doubted she would go anywhere. But perhaps in an attempt to clean up her accident, she might go to take off her pants, and Cuddy was sure that would make things worse. "Don't get in the tub until I get back."

She headed to the bathroom door to leave, but Rachel grabbed hold of her hand. "Don't tell House," she pleaded.

Cuddy was sure that he would not have cared either way about what had happened to Rachel. Even if he were feeling particularly arrogant, he would still barely be able to muster a comment. In her experience, Cuddy knew that House had never been _close_ to Rachel. But he'd never been intentionally and unnecessarily cruel either. Rachel was worried about what he would say if he knew, but the fact was he would never say anything.

"He's not going to care, baby. He –"

"No," Rachel muttered. "Don't want him know," she said, leaving out the to in her sentence.

Cuddy rubbed her daughter's tear-stained cheek. "I'm not going to say anything to him. I'm just going to get a hamper to put your clothes in, all right? That's all."

The words weren't enough insurance; Rachel's grip on her remained fierce, her pleading eyes wild with desperation.

"Rachel, it's okay," Cuddy said, as she slowly worked at freeing herself. "I'll be right back."

She moved out of the way before Rachel had a chance to grab her again. Briefly Cuddy worried that Rachel would respond by getting up off the toilet seat, doing precisely what Cuddy wanted to avoid.

But Rachel remained where she was. She didn't look happy, but she didn't move.

"I'll be right back," Cuddy repeated before heading out of the bathroom.

She was quick in retrieving Rachel's clothes hamper. Rachel might have been worried her mother would tell House, but Cuddy wasn't thinking about that at all. Her focus was solely on cleaning up the mess in front of her and worry about everything else later.

Of course, even if she wanted to tell him, he was nowhere in sight. Cuddy could only assume that that meant he'd gone into hiding in their bedroom or his office. He'd done his nice act for the day, and he was done – clearly.

Heading back to the bathroom with Rachel's hamper in hand, Cuddy sighed at that knowledge. That was precisely what she hated about this situation with House. He could be kind and attentive one moment and then... when he was done, he was done. He disappeared without comment, without pretending as though he'd ever cared at all.

She wouldn't say that he wasn't trying. He had made it clear that he was, and she could appreciate the effort he'd gone to this weekend. But... sometimes, like right now, it struck her that he was merely going through the motions.

As she pushed open the bathroom door though, she supposed there was nothing to be done about that now.

"See?" she asked an anxious Rachel who thankfully hadn't moved. "I came right back."

It didn't seem to make a difference. Rachel didn't seem relieved at all. But helping her ease out of her urine-soaked clothing, Cuddy realized slowly that her daughter's mood had everything to do with being wet. Because the second she was freed of her pants and underwear, she seemed a lot happier.

As with all things involving this weekend, her good mood didn't last however. She'd only been in the tub a few minutes when she asked, "Can we go back outside?"

Cuddy reluctantly shook her head. "You need to stay clean for the party tonight."

"I don't want to go to a party."

"You have to go. You were invited."

Rachel pouted. "Why can't I stay with Nana?"

Scooping water into a cup, Cuddy said, "Tip your head back." Rachel complied. "Nana's busy."

As Cuddy wet her daughter's hair, Rachel asked, "Doing what?"

"I don't know. Stealing souls" was Cuddy's frustrated reply.

"I don't want to go. I want to build a snowman."

Cuddy fought the urge to roll her eyes. If there was one thing Rachel had made clear, it was what she wanted and didn't want right now. It didn't need to be said again. But instead of pointing that out, Cuddy simply began shampooing her hair.

"I understand what you want," she said tersely. "But you have to go to this, and you're taking a bath now. So we're not going back outside today."

Perhaps having sensed that whining wasn't going to get her anywhere, Rachel asked, "Please?" Her voice was even not shrill, though there was no mistaking the question for anything other than the last ditch effort that it clearly was.

"Some other time," Cuddy said calmly. "Winter's not over. You have plenty of time to make a snowman."

Rachel knew what that meant: Mommy wasn't going to change her mind so there was no point in arguing. If she was lucky, maybe she wouldn't have school tomorrow, and she could make a snowman then. But Rachel wasn't hopeful. Cause of her asthma, she rarely got to play outside in the snow as it was, and Mommy hated the snow; House didn't, but Rachel knew he didn't like playing with her necessarily. And if it was icy, then that was hard on his leg, so he wouldn't want to go outside. And even if he _did_, now that she had peed her pants, no one would ever want to take her out again. They probably thought she would just pee in her pants again if they did.

"I'm never going to get a snowman," she said sadly, realizing how awful but true that was.

Mommy told her, "It's just one day, monkey. There's going to be more snow and plenty of chances for you to play outside."

Rachel didn't believe that. Everyone always made promises and plans, but she'd been around long enough to know that work or getting sick or something else always got in the way.

But she couldn't say that out loud. Adults could; they could say whatever they wanted but a kid? No. When you did that and you were young, everyone just assumed you needed a nap or were grumpy cause you didn't get what you wanted. So she just said, "I hate this."

Cuddy didn't reply at first. She didn't know what to say. Her daughter was upset that she couldn't go outside. There was no way to console her – no other way anyway. Cuddy had said they could go out some other time; she'd pointed out that there would be plenty of snow for them to play in later. There was nothing else to say.

Knowing that, she silently combed conditioner through Rachel's tangled hair. Every now and then, her fingers would snag in a particularly tight snarl, and Rachel would complain.

"That hurts!"

Delicately untangling the strands of hair, Cuddy said, "I'm sorry. Your hair's messy from being in that hat."

Rachel had nothing to say to that, and she became quiet once more. There was no doubt in Cuddy's mind that Rachel was still irritated about not being able to go outside. Not unlike House, she tended to hold disappointments and grudges for absurd amounts of time. In all likelihood, she would hold this in for days, bringing it up at odd moments to complain.

But for now, she seemed... not content but resigned to what was happening. And maybe it was just the hot water and the feel of her mother's fingers through her hair, but Rachel was slowly starting to droop. She stayed awake the entire time, watching Cuddy as she ran the washcloth along the length of her body. But it was clear that she was beginning to fall prey to exhaustion.

Cuddy supposed that made sense. Rachel's school had "quiet time" every day. Even if the kids weren't tired, they had to lay on their little mat on the middle of the floor, and Rachel was used to that routine, so much so that she still napped even when she didn't have school. Other parents had told Cuddy that their children no longer slept in the afternoon, but Rachel still went down for at least an hour after lunch on most days.

And frankly, Cuddy had never been happier for the reprieve than she was right now. Well, all right, maybe she'd been happier when Rachel had been a teething toddler. But this particular moment was a close second to that. Admittedly, Rachel wasn't doing anything wrong. She'd been... resistant to nearly everything Cuddy had tried to accomplish today, but she wasn't being _bad_.

Cuddy wanted the break though.

This entire weekend felt as though she'd been running from one crisis to the other, barely attempting to manage one problem before she had to rush off to another. The D.E.A. investigating the hospital, House and Rachel's relationship, John Kelley, this party that was looming over her head... it had just been one thing right after the other. And Cuddy felt as though she couldn't even breathe now without something else going wrong.

At least if she could get Rachel into bed for a little while, Cuddy could have some time to herself. Even if some other problem crept up (and frankly, it was safe to assume one would), she wouldn't have to worry about Rachel getting dirty for a while.

That probably shouldn't have sounded as good as it did to Cuddy's ears, but she couldn't help it. If it was one less thing she had to be concerned about, that was all that mattered. And so, although Rachel protested feebly, Cuddy put her in bed after her bath. It took only a few minutes before Rachel was fast asleep, the warm water and now her soft sheets lulling her to sleep quickly.

But it was funny, Cuddy thought as she closed Rachel's door behind her. This was one less thing to worry about, and that meant that she should have felt _relieved_.

She didn't.

She felt frantic.

Suddenly House's words came back to her, the sentiments echoing in her head. He'd said her behavior hadn't been a coincidence.

He'd been right.

Without even thinking, she headed back towards the bathroom and grabbed the hamper full of dirty clothes. Doing laundry was hardly something she wanted to do. Yet she found herself heading straight for the washer and dryer in the basement anyway.

As though her body refused to relax for even a moment, she started washing Rachel's clothes.

It didn't matter that she had a housekeeper to do this. It didn't matter that she was tired, exhausted from last night's fitful sleep and everything bad that had happened today. She felt as though she were unable to stop. The need to continue, to busy herself seemed almost consuming.

And again, she was reminded that House had been right.

She'd been obsessing over the smallest details, occupying herself with them to the exclusion of everything else. He'd seen it before she had, but now there was no denying that he'd been right all along.

When doing laundry wasn't enough to distract her from that fact, Cuddy felt compelled to seek him out.

He wasn't hard to find. Like Rachel, he seemed to have a few places he liked to disappear to in the house, and he never strayed from that. So it was hardly surprising to see him sitting on the couch in his office, his feet propped up on his coffee table.

He was reading something in his hand; she couldn't tell what, because he had the pages folded over the cover of the magazine or journal he was reading. Glasses dangled precariously on the bridge of his nose over the chicken pox scar she occasionally liked to touch when he was sleeping. He had a finger resting against his lips, and he was clearly deep in thought – so much so that he didn't even look in her direction when she came in the room.

Truthfully Cuddy didn't know if she wanted him to say anything or not. They were in an okay place at that _moment_, and she was half-convinced any sort of conversation would ruin the delicate balance. But she was here now; she had to do something. He might not have been paying much attention to her, but surely that would change if she turned around and walked away. He _would_ notice that and seize on the oddity like a dog with a bone.

Without any other option, she quietly joined him on the couch. He still didn't glance in her direction, even as she pulled her legs onto the sofa. But as she laid her head down in his lap, she was content to be ignored.

Anxiety filled her with an itching urge to do something, _anything_. But lying against House, his fingers eventually carding through her hair, she found it easier to resist surrounding herself with busy work. And for a brief couple of minutes, she relaxed into him. She let herself be consumed by the feeling of his warm hand on her and the soft sound of him turning a page every now and then.

That peace didn't last long though. As she lie there, she couldn't help but start to think of all the things she should be doing. And the more she tried to push away those thoughts, the more inescapable they became. Rachel's clothes needed to be put in the dryer; she should pick out the tie House would wear tonight; she should wash the floors and make sure all of the winter clothes Rachel had been wearing were put away….

She should be doing something.

And, perhaps because he was the closest distraction, Cuddy found herself saying, "You were right."

His hand settled on her shoulder, but he didn't speak right away. If anything, it took him a moment to look down at her and say, "Given how true that is, you're going to need to be a little bit more specific."

Rolling onto her back so she could look at him, she wasn't surprised to see that he was being serious. She scoffed in irritation. "You think now's the right time to act like an ass?"

"Am I really being an ass in pointing out that I am _often_ right?"

"Yes."

"Fine," he said with a shrug. "But it's not going to make me sound like _less_ of an asshole to say I have no idea what you're talking about."

She gritted her teeth but managed to explain, "You said my behavior wasn't a coincidence."

He inhaled loudly as understanding hit him. Taking his hand off her, he removed his glasses and set them aside. "You're surprised I know something about the woman I live with and have seen every day for years?"

She shook her head.

"You're mad then," he deduced, assuming that if she weren't surprised, she was agitated that he had realized what was going on first.

"No."

It was apparent that she was telling the truth. If only because she had no reason to lie, he believed her when she said she wasn't mad. But then that left him with predicament of not knowing what it was she _did_ feel.

She wasn't surprised, wasn't angry; she certainly wasn't going to be _happy_ that he'd recognized a behavior in her before she had. But that hardly narrowed down the possibilities before him.

He couldn't ask. Tempting though it was to put the question out there, he couldn't ask what the hell she was thinking. That never went over that well, and he didn't feel like getting into a fight over it.

It went without saying that there was a good chance that they would get into an argument anyway. But he was willing to try avoiding one if he could.

And House figured that the best way to do that was to be as obtuse and general in his reaction as he could be. Cover all bases, and there would be a chance he'd hit something she wanted or needed him to say.

"A lot's happened this weekend," he said as an admittedly lame opener. "Your Type A personality malfunctioning was bound to happen."

She blinked and looked away from him. He watched her intently, careful to take in every hesitant movement in her body – the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the way her eyelashes fluttered as she closed her eyes. "I didn't… I didn't know that was going to happen."

House latched onto the admittance instantly. Whether she'd intentionally given him an opening or not, he had struck something within her. And he wasn't going to let the opportunity pass him by.

"I'm not surprised," he told her calmly. "You respond to problems by trying to fix them."

"Which is a horrible quality to have," she replied with sarcasm laced in every word.

"Of course not. But you obsess over small details and fixate on making everything perfect." She looked at him as though he had said something insulting. It wasn't, but given how he tended to deride her need for perfection, he could see why she would hear his words spoken in the most negative of ways. "When things aren't _just_ right, you're not happy. You try to make it better, but sometimes that doesn't work. Things don't go the way you want them, you…." He tried to think of the right word he wanted to say. "_Hoard_ the control you do have."

He shrugged. "It was only a matter of time."

"You make it sound like I'm crazy."

"No." That was the last thing he wanted her to think he thought if he wanted to avoid a fight. "If it weren't for you, Rachel and I'd probably walk out the house without pants on twice a week and eat jelly beans and rat poison for dinner." Pausing for a moment, he felt compelled to add, "And when I say Rachel and I, I mean mainly Rachel."

"Of course. You don't need me at all" was her sarcastic reply.

She could have easily come across as offended. But he could see the small upturn of her lips, and he knew she wasn't upset.

"Obviously not," he said, playing along with the sentiment. "Once Chase fully transitions into a woman, you and I are _so_ done."

"Chase doesn't have my ass."

"_Or_ your affinity for naughty sex. So you have nothing to worry about."

She stifled a laugh. "I was so concerned."

"That's ridiculous to you," he said knowingly.

She looked at him like she thought he was an idiot. "As attractive as he is, I'm not worried."

"But you _are_ worried about John Kelley?"

His point had the effect he wanted. Because even though it was obvious she was about to get defensive, he could see understanding slowly seep in.

"I didn't say that," she said quickly.

"You didn't have to."

She sat up, suddenly agitated. "You are so arrogant. You get one little detail right, and you assume –"

"Yeah, it's not really two separate thoughts," he interrupted. "I knew you were going to react the way you did – _are_ – because if you didn't have something else to focus on, you'd think about kissing him."

The truth in that could be read all over her face. Just mentioning what had happened drained all of the color from her cheeks. And her voice was low – _dangerous_ when she said, "I told you not to bring –"

"I'm not bringing it up to make you feel guilty. I'm bringing it up, because it's the reason why that stick up your ass is –"

"We're not talking about this," she announced, standing up as she uttered the hasty words.

He didn't believe her for a second.

It didn't even make sense; her words when taken at face value were at odds with everything she had done up to this point. If she hadn't wanted to talk about what had happened, she wouldn't have told him that that asshole had kissed her. If she hadn't wanted to discuss it, she wouldn't have come to him _now_. She certainly wouldn't have allowed the conversation to get this far, anyway.

No, House didn't think she was lying. She wasn't. Cuddy was just... unable to assess her own needs at that point. She was so focused on that bastard's kiss and what it might mean for their relationship – as House had said – that she couldn't see her own ridiculousness.

Her words were as far from the truth as one could get.

But she didn't know that.

And yet he realized that he would never be able to convince her of that. Right now, she was too upset to listen to anything he had to say. So he could only tell her, "Okay. We won't talk about it."

House reached for his glasses and slipped them back on. Picking up the forgotten journal, he began to read once more. It would drive Cuddy nuts to see him do that (as her frustrated groan attested to). But it was all he could do in this situation. She wasn't ready for the conversation, and maybe he had approached the matter too aggressively, making her even more gun shy.

Whatever the circumstances, she needed a break, and he was willing to give her one. Frankly, he thought as she stormed off, it would only take twenty minutes at most. She would go do laundry or clean a bathroom or dust random surfaces in the house. All the while though, his words would eat away at her. She would consider everything he'd said, would want to brush them off as stupid and inaccurate, but she would be unable to. At some point while folding clothes or scrubbing a toilet or dusting a picture frame, she would recognize that he hadn't been wrong.

And then she would come to him again.

This time though, House was determined to be prepared.

He'd expected this conversation to creep up, but he _had_ been arrogant, as she had accused. He'd assumed that he would be able to reason with her without any real effort on his part.

At best that had been wishful thinking. To believe that she was in a position to hear him out, to think that logic alone would guide her to the truth... _yeah_, that had been stupid.

It was obvious that that would take more effort on his part. He would have to reason with her, yes, but he would need something to aid him along. He would need to lull her into a place where her own insanity would shut up long enough for her to listen.

And while he didn't assume anymore that that would be an _easy_ task, he did think it was straight forward.

As soon as she was out of sight, he got to work. He didn't have much time to prepare himself. If she was as consumed with anxiety as she seemed to be, he wouldn't have all that long to set up. So he quickly set his glasses and journal aside once more and started preparation.

Quietly he headed for the linen closet. The lack of whining in the house meant that Rachel was down for a nap, and Cuddy was nowhere to be seen, but he tried to keep his own noise down. The last thing he wanted was for his plan to be thwarted because of cranky Cuddys.

Pulling the door to the closet open, he carefully plucked out the thick electric blanket that they rarely used. Carrying it to the bedroom, he immediately went about spreading the blanket out on the bed. The bulky blanket was a hassle to deal with, especially when he had to waste time untangling the plug, which had become knotted. But he knew it was necessary to have the bed warmed. Cuddy was in such a neurotic, bitchy place that she would never get naked without the assurance that she wouldn't get cold.

Sure, there was a wrinkled cashmere throw at the bottom of the bed. It would be perfectly reasonable for a person to assume that that alone would be enough. But Cuddy was in a place that was so far from perfectly reasonable, and he wasn't going to take the chance. Besides, she could use the cashmere blanket to cover up with, he figured.

As soon as the bed was made to his liking, he stalked towards the bathroom. Not that she ever remembered to use them, but House knew she kept candles in the cabinets under the sink. Throwing the doors open, he yanked as many candles out as he could carry.

Perhaps this was going too far. That was what he thought as he strategically placed the candles around the room – along her dresser, on the night stands. Cuddy liked romance, but under these circumstances, he wasn't sure how she would react. Plopping the last candle down with a thunk, he considered that she wouldn't like it. In fact, the second she saw the display, she would assume that he was hoping to get laid and would probably react negatively.

In his head, he could hear her accusing him of using the experience with John as foreplay.

It was an insane thought, but that was precisely why House felt it was likely she would think it.

So he would need something to silence the lambs, he realized. And he knew just what that something would be.

Slipping out of the bedroom, he headed towards the kitchen. He needed matches, which he easily found in a drawer. But he also needed the mug he saw her holding earlier. He looked around the room for a bit but didn't see it. Eventually finding the mug sitting on the dining room table, he was pleased that it was still full of tea.

That would save him some time, he thought, as he microwaved it to get it hot once more. At least he didn't have to make more for her and risk her hearing the kettle whistling. Then again, if he'd made it from scratch, he wouldn't have nearly burned the flesh off his hands, he thought as he too eagerly reached for the hot mug in the microwave.

He hissed in pain when the porcelain cup rubbed against his palms. Forcing himself to wait a few seconds, he reminded himself that he needed to be calm. There was a time issue, yes, and he needed to be mindful of that. But none of his plans would work if she came into the room and felt his own frantic energy. If he weren't calm, she would never be, and nothing he said would ever register in her mind.

Taking a relaxing breath, he reached for the mug once more. This time he could handle the heat radiating off the cup. Long fingers curving around it, he cautiously made his way back to the bedroom. His limp made it more challenging to balance the mug, but he had learned over the years how to handle the uneven movement as best he could.

As soon as he was in the bedroom, he tossed the matches on to the bed. He could light the candles in a moment. He couldn't wait to do this, or Cuddy would know.

Heading back to the bathroom once more, mug in hand, he opened the medicine cabinet. His eyes roamed over the various prescriptions for the right one. The general agreed-upon arrangement was to separate the drugs by who they were for and, thanks to Cuddy's insanity, by alphabetical order. But try as she might to convince him otherwise, House never really followed her organization. As a result, his prescriptions were mixed in with hers, a bottle of Vicodin she let him keep in the house lying messily underneath her birth control.

His gaze seemed to fix itself on the Vicodin. He wasn't looking for that, but his body didn't seem to recognize that fact. As though his being could sense the close proximity of his favorite drug, he couldn't stop staring at it. And even when he reminded himself that he didn't need it, even as he told himself that that wasn't why he was here, he could feel his thigh twinge painfully.

Like it was longing for the Vicodin.

But it was that very pain that pulled him out of his trance.

Sometimes the Vicodin was a necessity; sometimes, no matter how hard he tried to rid himself of it, the pain was too great for him to ignore, and he would reach for the drug then. Now was not one of those times. And if Cuddy let him keep it here, it wasn't because she trusted him to know the difference between when he needed and when he merely wanted. It was because she _didn't_ trust him, because she felt it was easier to control his addiction by keeping it in plain sight.

If she'd forbidden it, she had realized that it would be easy for him to keep a secret stash in his office, in his car, in his apartment. It would be simple for him to take the drug elsewhere and never let her know what he had done. So she'd allowed the Vicodin in their home to keep an eye on him.

And, as it always did, that irritated him. He didn't like being watched over, being treated like her child. But he also knew, as he always reminded himself, that he had to play by the rules she'd set out for him. In this case at least, he had to. Sneaking Vicodin behind her back, throwing a fit over being unable to do what he wanted when he wanted... it would just prove her right. It would only convince her that her reservations were more than founded.

He supposed they were and that, maybe more than anything, he did what she wanted, because he didn't want _Vicodin_ to come between him and her. That thought reminding him of what was at stake, it forced his focus back on the matter at hand.

His search renewed, he found the bottle of Lorazapam she sometimes dipped into. As he opened the bottle, he recognized that it would do him no good to give her a full dose. There was still the stupid party he'd agreed to go to tonight, and she would absolutely rip his dick off if she missed it, because he'd drugged her. A half pill would do though.

Using the bottom of the bottle, he crushed one of the tiny white pills in half. Then he used the bottle to mash the half he was going to dose her with against the sink. When it was a fine powder, he brushed it into the mug of hot tea. He practically burned his finger to stir the Lorazapam into the liquid, but it would be a little obvious what he was doing if there were milky white chunks floating on top of the amber-colored tea.

Placing the leftover Lorazapam back in the bottle and the bottle back on the shelf, he closed the medicine cabinet. Doing so, he caught himself smiling in the bathroom mirror – grinning really. Instantly he forced his features to look less amused at his own ability to deceive. If she came in and saw him looking like _that_, she'd immediately know something was going on. She was already going to be suspicious; anything that could be perceived as nice from him at the moment was something she would question.

He wasn't going to make that any easier for her.

Heading to the bedroom once more, he placed her cup on her side of the nightstand. Grabbing the matches off the bed, he started lighting the candles around the room.

And that was what he was doing when she barged in the room. With resignation in her voice, she said, "All right. Fine. You're..." He wasn't looking at her, but he could tell by the way that her sentence trailed off: she was noticing the room. As predicted, she instantly became suspicious. "What are you doing?"

He finished lighting all of the candles before he answered. "You've had a bad day. I haven't exactly helped," he said honestly.

"And you think seducing me right now is what is going to help me." She sounded equal parts disgusted and irritated.

"I'm not interested in having sex with you," he admitted, as he walked past her. Closing the bedroom door and locking it, he heard how untrue the sentiment was. So he corrected himself. "Well, no more interested than usual."

Finally looking at her, he could see that the comment wasn't making her feel any better. He was screwing this up; he could tell, and he knew that he needed to fix it or lose the opportunity forever.

"I'm not trying to have sex with you," he told her in all honesty. "I just thought... you're tense and unhappy, and you need to relax."

The way he spoke, she believed him. He didn't seem like he was lying to her. But she still didn't understand. "I don't –"

"A massage," he supplied.

"Oh."

That had been the last thing she was expecting.

She'd been in the middle of switching the laundry from the washer to the dryer when she'd realized that he'd been right. _Again_. As hard as it was to admit it, she'd been trying to avoid thinking about John Kelley, about kissing him. All of this pent up energy had been a means to escape it, but nothing she did was enough. No matter how hard she tried, she kept remembering what had happened: his taste, the way he had felt against her mouth, his tongue on her teeth. And in doing so, yes, she couldn't help but fear for the state of her relationship with House.

She'd come here to admit that he was right, to get the reassurance that she could feel herself craving. Being in a position of need, she'd expected House to make her beg for it. Especially after she'd been so dismissive earlier.

She hadn't anticipated him being so giving.

That he _was_... seemed to be too good to be true.

"You want to give me a massage," she said slowly, incredulously.

Again he sounded honest when he explained. "I'm trying to make you feel better." She could tell that he was trying to avoid sounding condescending, but she didn't really feel as though he was succeeding. "I want you to listen to what I have to say, but that's not going to happen until you're calm enough."

She folded her arms across her chest. "And if I don't agree?"

"Then you don't agree," he said with a shrug. "You don't want a massage? Fine."

Disagreeing seemed to be the one thing that mattered to her. He was being calm and logical, but in her, she felt as though her salvation could only come from telling him how wrong he was. And that made absolutely no sense, not even to her, the person having the thought.

Perhaps he sensed her conflict, because he said then, "It's just a massage. It doesn't have to mean something."

It didn't feel like that, not to her. She felt so desperate to maintain control over herself that any concession about anything felt like a physical blow. But rationally she knew – _knew_ – that telling him no would just remind both of them how right he was about all of this. And he might not be smug _now_ about that, but he would be at some point.

She wasn't going to let _that_ happen.

"Fine," she conceded, like she was doing him a favor.

"Take off your clothes."

She didn't. In fact she didn't do anything other than scowl.

"I promise you, I'm not trying to have sex with you," he said quickly.

"So I'm getting naked, because..."

"Because I can do a better job if you are," he explained. She could hear the frustration he was trying to hide from her.

Part of her felt bad for him. Rationally she understood that he was just trying to do something nice for her. He was, in theory anyway, trying to be kind, and she was making that as difficult as could be. But knowing that didn't stop her from saying, "I don't want to be cold."

"You won't get cold. I –"

"I will."

There was a moment of heated silence, a pregnant pause where he was clearly trying to maintain control of himself.

"Electric blanket's on the bed," he told her, gesturing to the thick, butter-colored blanket that wasn't usually there. "It's been warming up for a while now." He reached for the cashmere blanket that had been folded at the foot of the bed. "You can cover up with this. And I reheated your tea for you."

It was clear that he had thought of everything. Every possible objection that she could offer he had dealt with, ensuring that he would get what he wanted.

"Fine," she grumbled, pulling her sweated up over her head. "I'll get naked."

"Wonderful."

It didn't take her long to discard all of her clothing. Getting undressed, she remembered, was a surprisingly simple task when she wasn't making out with him with one hand cupping her breast and the other hand shoved down her underwear.

Kicking her clothes aside, she looked at him. He was holding the mug of tea out for her expectantly. His gaze focused on her eyes, he wasn't looking at her body.

And that made her suspicious.

She took the cup, her cold hands greedily cradling the heated mug. But she didn't take a sip. There was just something so odd about him having the tea she'd long since forgotten about right there... waiting for her.

"You dosed this," she accused.

He smirked. "Why would I do something like that?"

"Because you're you."

He took a step closer to her. His frame looming over her, he told her, "Look in the cup. You see anything? Smell anything?"

She didn't, she realized, as he pushed some of her hair out of her face. "That doesn't mean anything."

"Okay." He took the mug out of her hands and took a large sip. He made a point of swallowing as loudly as he could. "That mean something to you?"

"You're bigger than I am. You could have still put something in it, and it wouldn't affect you."

"Get on the bed," he told her in a low voice that made her body flush.

She didn't mean to react to his tone, but she couldn't help herself.

If he noticed though, he didn't say anything. All he said was, "Don't drink it if you don't want to."

As she laid down on her stomach, carefully balancing the tea in her hands, her mind swam with possibility. Saying that he didn't care if she drank it made her think that he hadn't put anything in it. But maybe saying that was just his way of ensuring that she would think he hadn't put anything in it when he had.

"You're giving me a headache," she confessed.

"Just relax."

His hands were on her calves, his fingers carefully pressing into her muscle.

"You're over thinking this."

She was.

She couldn't deny that. She was obsessing over what he had done to the tea, what he _might_ have done to the tea. But really what did that matter? He wouldn't hurt her. So if he'd put something in the beverage, it wouldn't result in her being harmed in any way. Maybe she'd be drugged enough to agree with him; maybe she'd be high enough to take a nap or calm down in the way he wanted. But he wouldn't do something serious to harm her.

"I know," she agreed. Throwing caution to the wind, she tentatively sipped the hot tea in her hands. The paranoid part of her was curious as to what House's reaction to that was, but she refused to look back at him. It didn't matter, she told herself.

"You have nothing to worry about with that guy," House told her, taking advantage of her capitulation.

"No." She shook her head, dark curls slipping over her shoulder tantalizingly. He couldn't help but hungrily watch the strands slide along the plane of her back. "You're wrong."

"If you wanted to date that guy, you would have," he pointed out. "I'm not someone you just fall into a relationship with, Cuddy. You wanted _me_."

Warmth coated her every word. "I know."

"Then there's nothing to worry about," he dismissed.

Cuddy rolled over, her legs knocking his hands out of the way.

"See, the whole point of a massage is –"

"He's had people investigate you," she said gravely. "He's looking into you. He knew that you still had your apartment."

He wasn't concerned. He hadn't really considered it before, but he could believe that John would have someone investigating him. Wouldn't House himself have done the same thing in the reverse? "Of course he did."

"And that doesn't bother you." She took another sip of the tea.

"No."

She practically snorted into the mug.

"It doesn't," he insisted. "If you know about it, he _told_ you. And the only reason he would tell you what he was doing is to gauge your reaction." He gestured to her. "Obviously you weren't pleased by that little development. He's not going to keep –"

"You don't know that."

"Actually I do." He reached for one of her thighs and began to rub her pale skin. "If there's one thing I'd consider myself good at, it's seducing _you_. If I were trying to get in your panties, I wouldn't keep doing something that obviously doesn't make you happy."

She raised an eyebrow. "Since when have you tried to avoid irritating me?"

He intentionally didn't answer the question. "He wanted to see if you were open to hearing something _bad_ about me. He wanted to know if he could work that angle. It didn't work."

"And that's it?"

"Of course not. But he's not going to try and make me look bad, because he realizes now that that's not going to work."

Once more, she rolled over. "I guess."

"Don't spill that," he warned, noticing how the mug in her hand kept sloshing about. "Burnt nipples don't exactly spell relaxation. Even if you do like it kinky."

She didn't say anything in return. He was right, she thought, at least about the mug. She would burn herself if she weren't more careful. But truth be told, she was tired of dealing with the tea, so she quickly drank the rest.

Handing him the empty mug, she said, "So he's not going to be looking into you. That doesn't mean anything."

He set the cup on one of the nightstands. Picking up the cashmere blanket, he held it out in front of her face to take. And though she did, she didn't cover her body with it. She clutched it to her side but left herself open for his wandering gaze.

He did not believe that that was a coincidence.

"It means you're going to get a half-assed apology," he said knowingly. "It means he'll back off for a little bit and then try again, sure."

"And you're not concerned about that."

His hands rubbed along her bony ankles. "Like you said, I'm arrogant. It doesn't _please_ me to know what he's going to do. But I'm not worried that he's going to _steal_ you away from me."

Her voice seemed so small when she responded. "I don't want him to kiss me again."

Pulling one of her feet into his hands, he said, "I don't want that either. Lucky for both of us, he played that card too soon."

She didn't feel that lucky, she thought. She might have had a boyfriend who was doing everything in his power to make her feel better, but another man had kissed her. And she didn't feel as though she had anything even remotely approaching luck on her side.

"Yeah? How's that?" she asked.

"He tried to make a deposit in your bank before he made sure he even had an account there."

She raised her head off the bed. "You're comparing sex with me to having a bank –"

"Which means," he said, ignoring her distaste apparently. "You know what he wants; you can't deny it. Which means he'll have a very hard time getting you alone again," House explained, massaging the sole of her foot.

But that hardly made her feel better. "You're relying on a lack of opportunity. _You_ would give up if I just refused to be alone with you?"

"He's not as determined as I am to get in your pants."

At that, she felt him drawing one of her feet closer to his chest. The movement seemed odd to her; he already had her in his grasp. It wasn't like he didn't have a hold of her.

Turning her head, she asked, "What are you doing?" But as soon as she looked at him, she knew the answer. His hand was still rubbing one of her soles, but his gaze was trained on her ass. Or rather, thanks to his movement, her thighs had parted ever so slightly, and he was practically _staring_ at her vulva. "Seriously?"

He blinked and slowly let his gaze wander towards her face. "Am I not allowed to look?"

"Of course you can. It's just a little _odd_ considering what we're talking about."

"We were talking about something?" he joked.

He had to let go of her foot when she tried to kick him with it. "Do my shoulders," she instructed before laying her head back down on the mattress.

"I'm being punished for looking at –"

"No," she interrupted. "I'd just rather have you work on my shoulders."

And that was the truth. As much as her feet could ache after a day's worth of wearing heels, right now she didn't care about that. She wanted him close to her.

"Fine." He moved up the bed and placed his hands between her shoulder blades. As he started to massage her, he explained gently, "After that mistake, he's not going to try to kiss you again."

"Right," she said doubtfully.

"Let me tell you something: guys like him? They get off on being the _nice_ guy. That's how they flirt – by _seeming_ nice. He screwed up today," he said roughly, as harshly as his massage was unintentionally becoming. "He's not going to try to kiss you again. He'll flirt and do his little song and dance, but he'll want _you_ to make the next move."

"That's not going to happen," Cuddy told him with determination. No matter what John thought, she had never wanted, nor invited, his attraction. And she would never do anything to encourage him to continue feeling that way. "Not so hard," she said, as House practically pinched her back.

He stopped massaging her for a moment, perhaps aware of the pain he'd briefly given her. But what he said was a sarcastic, "That's not what you said this morning."

It took him a few seconds, but eventually he renewed his efforts. This time though, he was careful to be less rough with her. Still, underneath his fingertips he could feel the knots in her muscles. He tried to rub them out, to get her to relax, but he could tell that it wasn't working. He would ease the tension in one area of her shoulders or back and move on to the other. But then, when he would meander back to the place he'd started, she was as tense as ever.

"You're still worried about that," he said with dismay. He was unhappy that, despite all of his efforts, she wasn't any more relaxed than when she'd come into the room.

"I don't understand how you can't be," she murmured into the cashmere blanket.

"I would be worried if I thought he had any chance with you. I know he doesn't." He pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. "If I thought I'd given you a reason to run into his arms, I'd be concerned." He rubbed his chin against her pale skin. "I know I'm screwed up, but I don't think I've done that. Even if I haven't been the best with Rachel."

Wanting to put some distance between them, he raised his head up. Quickly he began to massage her once more, hoping that she would take the hint: he didn't want to talk about that.

By his previously employed logic, admittedly, if he'd brought it up at all, he wanted to talk about it. But he hadn't meant to open the door for a discussion about Rachel. He'd needed, in that split second, to recognize his own faults in the relationship. He did _not_ want Cuddy to take that as a sign that they should talk about it.

Unfortunately for him, there was absolutely no chance of that happening. He knew it, even before she had a chance to open her mouth. They were going to have the conversation whether he liked it or not.

So he hastily fished for a compliment. "You should be happy about that, right? You said I needed to take care of it, and I did. Rachel and I aren't fighting anymore."

She didn't respond right away. And as each second passed silently, no approval coming from her, his heart seemed to clench painfully in his chest.

Pulling his hands away from her, he asked, "What did I do wrong?" He sat back on the bed, not stunned that she was doing this. He had predicted she would be this way. But it still upset him, which _did_ surprise him.

Cuddy rolled over. "Nothing," she said quickly. "You didn't do anything wrong." But she said it with such speed that he didn't believe her for a second.

"Really."

"Yes. I'm –"

"You're lying," he snapped bitterly. He rested his head against the headboard and closed his eyes. "So tell me. What didn't you like?"

Thoughtlessly he began to rub his thigh, so mindlessly that he didn't even realize he was doing it until she called attention to it.

"Why don't you take off your clothes and let me rub you a little?" she suggested in a sweet voice that he couldn't appreciate at the moment.

"Why don't _you_ answer the question?"

She crawled up on the bed to be closer to him. And God help him, but he couldn't help but watch the way her breasts swayed with the movement. Even when he was irritated, he couldn't ignore how beautiful she was.

"I will," she told him. "But like it was with me... I don't think you'll listen to me right now, like this." She motioned to his fully clothed body. "So take off your clothes... let me rub your leg and make you feel better, and then we can discuss this."

It didn't sound like a good idea, not to him. But he was powerless to refuse a thigh massage, especially when it came from _her_. Over the years, she had learned from experience what eased his pain, what he liked. He had a masseuse's number in his cell phone for that instance where he needed relief and Cuddy was busy. If he could always have his way though, she would be the one touching him. And so, although he didn't want to turn the focus on to _him_, he was unable to say no.

As he unzipped his jeans, he told her, "This wasn't supposed to be like this. I didn't want this to be about me."

"I know… but we need to talk about this." He was content to stay in his boxer briefs and shirt, but she wasn't having that. "Uh uh. _Naked_."

He rolled his eyes. "You're just going to massage my leg."

"You're not the only one who likes to look," she pointed out as she grabbed the hem of his shirt.

He knew better than to disagree with her. Doing so would only result in a fight, and really, he didn't want that. So it was simply easier for him to pull off the remaining articles of clothing he was wearing.

"Better?" he asked, as he settled back on the bed.

She exhaled roughly, her eyes taking in his appearance. "Much."

He kept quiet as she started to run her palms along his leg. He wanted to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible, yes. But for the first several minutes, he could only focus on what she was doing. As much as he trusted her to know what he needed, his leg muscles always involuntarily contracted at first contact. As though his body didn't quite trust the foreign touch, it always took him a few minutes to calm himself down. And in those instances, it was best to just close his eyes and ease himself into the gentleness of her massage.

For her part, she had the good sense to stay quiet then. He had no doubt that her mind was teeming with things she wanted to say. But she seemed okay with waiting as long as it took.

When he'd finally adjusted to what she was doing, he opened his eyes once more. And immediately he was confronted with how beautiful she was. Sitting in front of him naked, her hands on him, her gaze unwavering in desire as she drank in his figure, she was nothing short of amazing. Perfect nipples tightened in the cool air, bare breasts so close he could reach out and palm one if he wanted to... it was so enticing that it almost made him forget why they were sitting like this.

_Almost_.

Clearing his throat, he asked once more, "What did I do wrong?"

She looked up at him. Her eyes were sad, something he hadn't expected to see. "House, you didn't do anything wrong."

He didn't believe her. "If that were true, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"I..." She sighed. "You were nice to her, taking her outside."

"And that's a problem, because..." He really didn't understand where she was coming from.

"You always do this," she said vaguely.

"This being –"

"You spoil her, House."

He scoffed.

And she knew she had to clarify. Her fingers tentatively traced the line of his scar as she said slowly, "When you feel you have to get closer to her, your solution is to give her what she wants. The monkey, taking her outside –"

"I'm sorry." The sarcasm was heavy in his voice. "You're right. I should have beat her instead. I'll keep that in mind for next time."

"Did you tell her the real reason you didn't read to her?"

That immediately caught his attention. Cocking his head to the side, he asked, "How do _you_ know what the so-called reason is I –"

"Rachel showed me the book." She looked down for a second. When her eyes met his again, she said, "I saw the inscription. Kutner's name."

"Good for you," he replied, plopping a hand on a pillow. "You're literate."

She ignored the comment. "You were nice to her, sure. But she still has no idea what happened, why you reacted the way you did."

"She doesn't need to know that."

"She needs to know _you_," she said pointedly. "You can give her every stuffed animal in the world, and that's not going to mean anything if you don't have some sort of emotional –"

"You think I don't realize that?"

The edge in his tone was lethal. Each word came out so sharply that she was surprised by the viciousness.

"Believe me. I _know_ what you want from me. You take every opportunity to remind me of it."

She let her palms rest against his thigh. Licking her lips, she explained to him in a calm voice, "We were talking about what's making me… crazed." She sighed. "I don't want to deal with John, but I can handle him."

"I know you can."

"What I'm not sure I know how to handle, what I'm _most_ worried about, is this situation with Rachel," she confessed.

"I _know_." He stressed the word to demonstrate just how clearly he understood. "But you have to understand that it's not _easy_ for me."

Without warning she leaned forward and kissed him. Hands on his shoulders as she pulled away, she stayed close to him when she echoed his own thoughts, "_I_ know."

"You have to give me time," he said quietly, her nearness somehow keeping the anger at bay.

"I'm not rushing you." The doubt must have shown through on his face, because she added, "I'm trying to be as patient as I can be."

"Which is why you pointed out my mistake the second you could."

Cuddy pulled away from him. "Honey, you were the one who brought that up. I didn't."

Quickly going over the conversation in his head, he supposed he had. But that didn't mean he was wrong. "A technicality."

"No."

"A little bit, yeah."

"_You_ asked for my opinion."

"Not really."

"So I gave it," she said, obviously ignoring him.

"Actually, I was hoping you'd give me the compliment I was fishing for and reward me in the form of sex."

"You have me naked on a bed," she pointed out. "If it was about the sex, we would be having it. You wanted the compliment."

"So you thought you'd respond by crushing my balls. Metaphorically speaking of course."

She smirked. "Well, I considered actually crushing them, but I _am_ a little attached to that area."

He wasn't amused or any less annoyed by the comment. "I know what you're trying to do. And, as much as I like hearing you compliment my twig and berries, you're not going to distract me from what you said."

Cuddy knew with all her heart that he meant what he said. Nothing was going to make him forget what she'd told him. It wasn't going to automatically get better until she made it that way.

"I wasn't criticizing you," she told him. Knowing full well that he wouldn't believe her, she had to concede afterwards, "It came out that way. I know."

"Ya think?"

"I'm frustrated."

"And you're the only one –"

She shushed him by pressing her hand to his mouth. "You need to listen to me. You've had your chance to speak. Now it's your turn to shut up."

He did, although it was clear on his face that that was the last thing he wanted to do.

But when he was finally quiet, she tried once more. "Do you remember what you said to me when you first wanted to move in?"

"Am I allowed to speak now, because –"

"It's a rhetorical question."

"Oh."

"You said to me – you _promised_ me that this wouldn't be thrown back in my face."

Her eyes fluttered shut as she remembered every last word he had uttered that night. The suggestion had been ridiculous at first, fear blinding her to any desire she might have had for cohabitation. It had seemed too soon in their relationship, too foolish to mix their volatile personalities under one roof with no escape.

But he had won her over.

Lying in bed then as he was now, he had managed to convince her. He had made few promises, readily admitting and acknowledging all of the reasons this would end in disaster. He had never lied about what would happen; it had been his earnestness simply that had swayed her.

Opening her eyes once more, she looked at him pointedly. "You _told_ me that you would find a way to make it work with Rachel."

"You think I'm not trying to do that?"

"_I _think that with the way you are handling this, I will be waiting forever for you to do what you _said_ you would."

She expected him to fight back. But all he did was throw his hands in the air and say, "Tell me what you want."

"That's not –"

"_No_," he said shaking his head. "I'm obviously clueless." There was a bite to the words, but what surprised Cuddy the most was the lack of sarcasm. There was bitterness, yes, but he was _honest_. He really felt that he had no idea what he was doing.

Placing a hand on his chest, she gently slid her palms along his pecks up to his shoulders. Her fingertips lightly kneaded the flesh along his clavicles. If she had been tense, she thought at that moment that that was nothing compared to how he felt underneath her now.

And _that,_ more than anything he'd said, made her realize just how… _unhinged_ she really was.

Granted, it wasn't like she didn't believe him before. She _had_. But now that she was neck deep in a fight with him, now that she had made him feel _awful_, she could truly see what her behavior was like. She could see how wrong it was in a way she hadn't before.

"I'm sorry." She shook her head and looked away. "I'm sorry." It didn't seem like she could say it enough. "I'm – that's not what I'm trying to say. I didn't mean that. You're amazing."

He wasn't sure where she was headed with this, but he didn't believe her. She was absolutely insane, but even she couldn't go from complaining to lauding this quickly. At least he didn't think so. Then again, she was so nuts today that really anything was possible, he guessed.

And if that were true, if she could change her mind at the drop of a hat, he knew he needed to play things carefully. As much as he might want to believe in the shift in behavior, he knew better than to do that. He needed to know that she actually meant it before he could do that. So he stayed silent.

"I'm not saying that. You didn't do anything wrong," she said hastily, almost frantically. "That's not what I mean... and it's coming out all wrong, because –"

"I know why, so why don't you get to the point?" Maybe the words came out peeved. All right, they definitely did. But he already understood why sanity had abandoned her; he was, after all, the one to tell _her_ about it. So he didn't need to hear her regurgitate the information he had given her.

"I'm not saying you should be awful to her. I'm saying... you think you have to do all these nice things to make her like you." Cuddy's hands nervously went back to his thigh. Kneading the flesh, she added before he could say it, "And before you tell me I'm telling you that you should be cruel to her, that's not what I want either."

"Yeah, I gathered that. Again, get to the –"

"You're enough," she blurted out. "You don't have to give her anything. You all on your own is all she needs."

It simultaneously felt as though he'd been hit in the face with realization and stunned from confusion. Even as he understood what she was saying, he didn't. Even as he thought to himself that she had given him a greater gift than she could ever understand, he didn't think that was true at all; whether she meant anything she said or not, part of him couldn't believe this was an act of kindness.

Then again, he had no idea what to believe.

Her arbitrary behavior and his ambivalence over the whole matter made it hard to know what her point was or how he should react. The fact that he _knew_ he wasn't good enough for Rachel just made things even more muddled. Cuddy was looking at him like he should be thanking her or... reacting in some way. But he thought that was naive on her part.

"I know you don't believe that," she said, probably feeling prompted by his silence. "But it's true."

"Is it?" he asked, searching for some sort of truth in her gaze.

"House, _plenty_ of people have no business being around children, but they are. They have them."

"So now I'm being lumped in with child molesters and –"

"_No_," she snapped back. "That's not –" She cut herself off with a loud, frustrated exhale. "I would never say that."

He didn't say anything in response. Maybe he should have, but he couldn't; words weren't going to come, he knew, until he was sure she wasn't making _that_ comparison.

"You think you're so screwed up," she said knowingly. "And... sure, you are."

"Thanks."

"We both are," she insisted. "Most people are. Isn't that what you think?" He didn't answer the question. His gaze trained on hers, he wanted her to get to the point as quickly as possible; talking would only slow things down. "If only sane, completely well adjusted people had children, we would have died out as a species."

And then he couldn't help but interject. "If this is supposed to make me feel better –"

"Rachel doesn't care," Cuddy said in a firm voice. "Kids don't. She's not going to care that you have… a _million_ different flaws."

"Again, if I'm supposed to –"

"She just wants to know you, House. That's it," she said with a shrug. "She will forgive you for your shortcomings. But if all you ever do for is… give her presents and spoil her, what's that going to mean to her?"

"So I should have told her about Kutner, because nothing says, 'Let's have a nice Sunday afternoon' like explaining _suicide_ to a five year old."

He was clearly trying to make her back down by being so blunt.

But Cuddy wasn't going to back down.

"You can twist this in your head all you want so you don't have to think about what I'm saying, but I'm not going to fight with you," she said sharply. "I'm not playing. I'm out. If you think that me saying what a great man you are… that, despite your beliefs, you would actually be _good_ for her if you let yourself open up to her – if you think _any_ of that is an insult –"

"Actually I'm just wondering if your sentence is ever going to end."

It was like the air being let out of a balloon. Whatever willpower she had dissipated immediately. As much as she wanted him to see her point, she was done trying to do that; if he was going to be an ass the entire time, she would let him figure it out on his own.

But when she didn't finish the rest of her thought, he seemed unhappy about that.

"Well?" he prompted. "I'm assuming there was more to that."

"No," she said with a shrug.

"No?"

"Nope."

"Really? Cause it sounded like –"

"You don't want to hear anything I have to say, so… that's it. I've said more than enough. You can figure out the rest."

He considered what she was saying. "So your entire point has been… what, that Rachel and I could be friends?" The words felt odd in his mouth, his tongue struggling to utter each syllable. The idea of it all was just so strange, so foreign to him, especially since, looking at her, he could see that _she_ believed it.

To hide his surprise, he fell back on sarcasm. "That she has a thing for middle-aged drug addicts, like mother like daughter, and –"

"You have to put it like that," she interrupted, shaking her head. As she sat back, he could see the irritation flit across her face. But he didn't feel bad about that. "You have to say it in the most offensive way possible."

"Of course. If I put it nicely, well, that would be confusing for you."

He could practically hear her teeth gnashing together. Her arms folding across her chest, she angrily said, "I try to make you feel better –"

"Actually, I think you were trying to make _yourself_ feel better."

"And you take that as an opportunity to say that I have no taste," she said, ignoring him.

"You're telling me I should be myself around your kid," he pointed out. "I think that's the perfect time to call into question your taste level."

Was it pathetic to admit that? Sure. Even as the words came out of his mouth, he could tell that the sentiment behind them was hardly one he was proud of. And frankly, as the milliseconds passed, he became increasingly regretful of ever saying something like that.

Without a doubt, Cuddy was responding to the emotion positively; it was the kind of thing, he knew, tailor made for her, to make her sympathetic towards him. But it was also an overly sentimental expression of low self-esteem that could only induce cringing in him. And regardless of how she was reacting, he was embarrassed to have even uttered the words.

The feeling only multiplied when she said in a soft, sympathetic voice, "Oh, _House_."

"No." He held up a hand, wanting to stop this train of thought before it ever left the station. "Don't."

"Don't?" She seemed surprised.

"Yeah," he said calmly. "You've gone from saying I'm bad for your kid –"

"That's not what I said."

"To, now, how great I would be. You've said you'd stay out of it and leave it all up to me but here you are meddling –"

"I am _not_ –"

"A little bit." He held up his thumb and index finger and formed them into a small C so that there wasn't much space between them. "A _tiny_ bit. And having witnessed your insanity all day, I'm leery of letting you say anything to me right now, given that there's a chance you'll change poles halfway through the conversation."

Unknowingly proving the point, she went from sympathetic to disgruntled. "I'm not crazy."

"Of course not," he said sarcastically.

That just made her scowl. "I'm _not_."

"Oh okay."

"I never said you were bad for Rachel," she pointed out. "Your way of being uninvolved is, and that doesn't contradict me saying that your friendship would be good for her _and_ for you. In fact, those two things almost seem, I don't know, _related_."

She was being playful, but there was a dangerous edge to her humor that House instinctively enjoyed. In his estimation, she was never hotter than when she gave as good as she got, and right now, she was potently attractive… given that she _was_ also naked.

"House?" she asked after a second, pulling him from his thoughts. He looked up at her but said nothing. "Are you listening to me or just staring at my breasts?"

He tilted his head a little. "That's a rhetorical question, right?"

"You're impossible," she groaned. "Have you even heard a single word I've said?"

"_That's_ a rhetorical question as well, I think."

"Oh _come on_. I'm trying to – you have nothing to say?"

He decided that it was worth giving her a dose of the truth. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say." He paused but then forced himself to ask, though hesitantly, "You really mean it… I'm not completely horrible for Rachel?"

"Of course I mean it," she said in a voice that allowed her earnestness to shine through. "We wouldn't be having this conversation if I didn't."

Put forth that simply, it was impossible to think she was lying; she clearly meant what she said. Though it made no sense, she actually believed that it would be good for him to…

He didn't even know how to finish that sentence.

What she was encouraging him to do was so unfathomable that he had no idea how to word it, much less do it. She, of course, thought that he was being sarcastic as a way to avoid making the conversation serious. And sure, that was part of it. But more than anything, he wasn't sure he possessed the means to word it nicely.

As it was, it was hard enough to know he needed to form some sort of… relationship with the kid. It was difficult enough to process _that_ and figure out what he needed to do. That Cuddy seemed to believe he could be _good_ at it… well, that was mind-boggling. And he had no idea how to respond to her assertion. He really had no clue what to say.

But she seemed to understand his silence. Her hands kneading his thigh once more, she said, "Just think about it, all right?"

He nodded his head, because he didn't know what to say. However, she clearly wanted him to say something; she kept looking at him like she was waiting for him to speak. So he felt compelled to say, "Okay."

"Thank you."

He didn't want to let that sentiment hang between them for too long. Knowing it would just make things awkward, he wanted to push through the moment as quickly as he could.

"Are you done?"

She was unamused. "Yes, I'm sorry this has taken so much of your time," she said snidely.

"No need to be like _that_. I just think… you're naked. I'm naked. We're in –"

"So you want to segue from our conversation to _sex_." She frowned.

He didn't really see the problem there. "At this point, I'd segue to a _rectal probe_ to end this discussion."

"Keep talking like that and I'll make sure that happens," she said darkly.

However, she undermined her own threat by pulling away from him. By then, she'd had enough of the conversation that seemed to be going nowhere as well. Though she wouldn't admit it, they agreed on that much; it was time to move on to other things. So she turned around and started to crawl off the bed.

Nevertheless, she didn't appreciate him acting as though she were wasting his time. After all, _she_ was trying to be _nice_. It might have made him uncomfortable to hear the truth, but _God_, he didn't have to act like such a jerk. Since he no doubt _would_ behave that way though, she decided she wouldn't stick around for it.

But House had other ideas. As she was crawling towards the foot of the bed, he grabbed her ankle. He tugged lightly, just enough to hold her in place.

"Oh come on," he said in exasperation. "Don't go away."

Neck deep in her own frustration, she buried her face into the warm electric blanket beneath her. But doing that left her ass in the air and elicited from House, "Okay, if you don't want have to sex, you have to _stop_ doing _that_ immediately."

She snorted loudly and rolled over on to her side so that she was looking at him once more. "Better?" The obvious answer was no since his gaze had returned to her chest. "Maybe I should put some clothes on."

"Or..." he said softly, the fingers around her ankle lightly stroking her. "I can finish that massage."

"Okay."

There was no resistance on her part. As much as their motto as a couple might have been "Fight over everything," she was more than willing to accept his offer. Sometimes there really was no reason to fight, she thought as she rolled over onto her stomach. Especially when the hands on her back were warm and gentle, it would have been idiotic to tell him no to spite him.

Hell, the longer he rubbed her shoulders and back, the more she realized just how much she'd let him get away with if he used _this_ as his apology. Truth be told, she was okay with that, which was why she spoke up.

"Next time you screw up, _please_ do this," she mumbled into the hand her head was resting on.

His hands abruptly stopped moving between her shoulder blades. "How did _I_ screw up?"

Although she had the urge to smother herself with a pillow, she fought it in order to say, "I wasn't saying you –"

"You just said –"

"In the future," she said with irritation lacing every word. "Not now."

"But you said –"

"That this feels _nice_," she snapped. Mentally she corrected that it _had_ felt nice, because surely there was nothing about this particular moment that she liked. "That's it."

He didn't respond right away, which could only mean that he was realizing just how badly he'd gotten it wrong. Because if he was still under the _delusion_ that he'd been wronged, he would still be talking. He'd be accusing her of all sorts of things. Since he wasn't, she could only believe that he suddenly saw how much he was overreacting.

"Oh," he muttered eventually.

"Yeah. _Oh_."

"Well, it's not like you –"

"You can't blame me for this," she said smugly. "This is all your fault."

She could practically feel the annoyed look he was giving her. "You're enjoying this way too –"

"You've been acting like _I'm_ the crazy one, but –"

"You _are_."

"Then I guess I'm not the only one, am I?"

He started rubbing her lower back, but he was almost cautious about it. And when he spoke, she understood why. "Nah. Your level of crazy is only attainable if you've had the pleasure of being raised by someone just as nuts. And your _mother_ –"

"Yes, _please_ start making jokes about my mother," she said dryly. "Cause your childhood was perfectly normal."

"Never slept with my dad's best friend." His fingers paused before sliding down to her ass. "Of course, my dad's best friend was a –"

"I'm pretty sure if you'd done that, we wouldn't be together."

"Why? Because I'd be gay or because I would killed myself once the shame set in?"

She glanced back at him, which made him stop _petting_ her butt. "Are you saying I should be _ashamed_ of –"

"Is that what I said?"

She laid her head back down. "No."

"No, I did not," he agreed in the most condescending voice she thought he could muster. "Although I'm glad you think I did, because now, once again, you're the mayor of Crazytown, and I am the sane one."

Effortlessly she laughed. "_I'm_ the crazy one."

"Yeah."

"Between _you_ and me, _I'm_ the one who's –"

"Sorry. No point in arguing. Judges have made their ruling."

"There are no judges. There's just _you_."

"And we both know my keen sense of –"

"Are you actually going to attempt to have sex with me?" she asked, changing the subject with ease. "Or do you plan on calling me insane and massaging my ass for the rest of the afternoon?"

His answer came in the form of a dry question. "This isn't turning you on?"

"You wish," she said tiredly.

He slid his hands back up to her lower back. As his palms eased the tension from her muscles, he considered his options. He could try to make a more aggressive move; in theory, she'd just encouraged him to do so. But then, if she'd made the comment to get him to _back off_, pushing further would end disastrously. And as bizarre and unlikely as that possibility seemed, Cuddy's behavior today made it seem possible.

Needless to say, he wasn't interested in making a wrong move. As fun as it could be to irritate her, now was definitely one of those times when any satisfaction he might have gotten from driving her nuts would be surpassed by the dissatisfaction he received when she got pissed. So he was, for sure, going to proceed carefully – _very_ carefully.

But he'd no sooner thought that than when Cuddy spoke up.

"You're over thinking this."

"Am I?" he asked cautiously.

"Yeah."

"You mean –"

"That was an invitation for sex? _Yes_."

He didn't feel any relief. Again, he had to wonder: was it _really_ an invitation? It sounded like one, but –

"Oh for the love of God, House," she practically snapped, rolling over onto her back. As his gaze instinctively went for her breasts, he heard her add, "This isn't rocket science."

But just because she said that didn't necessarily make it true. Of course, he couldn't tell her that her mood was making the simple task of _fucking her_ complicated. That would piss her off… assuming she didn't start laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. So he definitely couldn't say any of it aloud.

He didn't need to though.

Sitting up Cuddy had clearly decided to take control. "It's really not," she told him, reaching him for him.

"What?" he asked, distracted.

She smiled and took hold of his hands. "As fun as I'm sure it is for you to ogle me, there are better things we could be doing."

"Yeah?" he asked, even as he let her press the palm of his hands against her chest.

"You want me to beg you?" Annoyance colored the question more than she intended. But it was hard to feel guilty about that; the second she let go of his hands, they dropped to her side as though he didn't want to touch her. And then she really _was_ irritated, because she could _see_ the desire in his eyes. But he wasn't acting on it?

"No," he said in what seemed to be an honest voice.

She couldn't think that he actually meant what he was saying, but he certainly seemed to. Not that that meant anything, she guessed; if anyone was a great liar, it was House. And though it was foolish to even entertain the idea of playing games with her right now, the possibility wasn't exactly out of the question either.

"I just want to make sure... that you're interested in this and not just saying that to shut me up or make me back –"

"So then you _do_ want me to beg," she interrupted.

"_No_. That's not what I said."

"Well, I _have_ been saying I want sex," she pointed out. "I wouldn't say that if I didn't want it." He seemed hesitant to believe that. "What's the problem?"

He eyed her carefully. "When you first came in here, you said you weren't interested in –"

"And I changed my mind."

"Seriously," he said doubtfully.

"Yes."

He nodded his head though he didn't look convinced.

"If I didn't want it, I wouldn't suggest it. Although I'm sure you will make me regret saying this," she muttered, knowing with all her heart that he would. "I am attracted to you."

"How embarrassing for you."

She ignored the self-pitying remark. "You're naked. In front of me. You're touching me."

"You just said that _wasn't_ turning you on."

"It wasn't," she admitted. "But it made me think of all the other places you could be touching me and..." She shrugged. "I guess it worked."

Still, he looked at her as though at any moment she would snap at him. "So... this isn't a trick."

"Of course not."

The way she said it made it seem like it was completely out of the realm of possibilities, but even she knew that was a lie. Oh, she would never begrudgingly welcome him into her bed; he was speaking as though she might just have sex with him to appease him, and she had enough self-respect _not_ to do that. But she supposed that there were times when the fun of tormenting him had left him unsatisfied and wanting more. Those days were long gone though.

That had been another life really. Before they'd gotten together, the tease had been all they'd had together. Never willing to actually go there, they'd both flirted with the other's attraction; it had been what they'd done for fun. And then they'd started dating and maybe, _maybe_, that dynamic had come along with them. When she'd wanted to make him angry, when she'd suddenly become afraid of what their relationship meant, when she herself had been angry, sure, she'd offered him sex and then turned him down or given it to him and then punished him for it. Under no circumstances had that been a healthy way of doing things, and she would never act like – _had_ never pretended like – it was.

But that had stopped the second they'd chosen to live together, to really invest in their relationship. They'd never talked about it, but she suspected they'd both known that the games had to stop. If he was going to be living in her home, if he was going to be in Rachel's every day life, they couldn't keep tormenting one another for the hell of it. Cuddy wouldn't pretend that changing had been easy or quick. They'd maintained a certain dynamic for so long that it had been anything but simple to focus that energy elsewhere. But they'd done it.

And yet House was sitting here acting like nothing had changed. He was looking at her like she would still get mad at him for giving her what she said she wanted (but didn't really want). And she had to wonder in that moment how much they'd changed if he still thought that that withholding behavior was within her.

She had to wonder if maybe he was right.

But almost instantly, she dismissed the idea. As screwed up as they still were, Cuddy had no interest in hurting him. She might have still been capable of treating him that way, but what point would that prove? What would that get _her_?

It would make him mad and upset the delicate balance of their relationship. It would give her a temporary high, potentially, but the amount of suffering they would all experience to get their dynamic back to normal wouldn't be worth it. And if he thought that _she_ thought differently, then he was clearly out of his mind.

"I have no interest in telling you no," she insisted in a firm voice. "On the other hand, _you_ seem to be intent on avoiding this."

"Avoiding sex? That... doesn't happen."

She pretended to be uneasy at his reluctance. Then again, she supposed his hesitance _did_ make her uneasy. She didn't like what he was implying about her own behavior. But what she presented to him was that it somehow made her doubt herself. Purposely looking away from him, she had to fight the urge to smile as she played him. "Well, what am I supposed to think? I'm _naked_, and you don't want to have –"

"Don't want?" he asked in surprise. "Now you're just being an idiot."

The words were harsh, but they were everything she wanted to hear. They all but guaranteed that they were going to railroad over this moment with sex, which was, in all honesty, what she wanted.

It might have been foolish to think that making love could undo all of the _crap_ she'd experienced today. But she was willing to give it a shot if he was.

Thankfully, he didn't seem opposed to the idea any longer.

His lips descended on her shoulder. A soft kiss to her clavicle, he slowly moved towards her neck. His breath was hot on her skin; the small wet trail of kisses he was leaving in his wake should have been cool to her – it was so cold outside – but somehow that just spread warmth within her. He pressed his lips roughly into her pulse point, his stubble noisily scratching against her flesh, as he asked her, "How could I ever not want you?"

Inwardly her answer was it wasn't possible. But saying that out loud would only make her sound bad. So she lied. One of her hands clasping one of his, she said quietly, "You were hesitating."

His thumb stroked the back of her hand. "I didn't want you to think I was taking advantage of you."

"I don't think that's possible," she said with a smile.

His mouth slowly found hers, as though they had all the time in the world to kiss, touch, enjoy one another. She knew they didn't, not realistically; Rachel would wake up, or it would be time to get ready for the party...

"Stop thinking," he whispered against her lips.

She kissed him back, her free hand rubbing his good thigh. Freeing her mind of worry was no small task, but if there were a distraction capable of fighting her concern, it was House.

Slowly she let her fingers roam to his cock. As he slipped her tongue, she took him in her hand; he gasped into her mouth, his hips instinctively thrusting into her grip. The second he did that though, she let him go. His stamina was fantastic, not just for his age but for _anyone_. But they had had a lot of sex, and even he had his limits, so she needed to make sure this didn't end quickly.

He didn't seem to care about that, however. The loss of contact between her hand and his dick clearly left him wanting and disappointed, and not even cupping his balls seemed to be enough for him.

But that only made him more interested in pleasing her, which, needless to say, she liked. If he had been hesitant before, he was no longer. The hand not holding hers glided over her body, leaving a trail of heat wherever his palm went. As he passed over her abdomen, her stomach clenched with understanding and excited longing. He was going to touch her the way she had been hoping he would for at least fifteen minutes now.

Thankfully.

He hadn't been wrong to think she was uninterested when she'd come in here. But his hands on her body and the loving way he had tried to make her feel better had been a greater turn on than any romantic act. He had shown her just how much he loved and supported her, and if that hadn't turned her on, she was sure nothing would or could have ever.

With what she could only call reverence, he parted her thighs. His fingers were gentle, the pads tickling her as they meandered their way from her legs to her slit. As she curled her fist around his dick once more, he slipped a finger inside of her.

Her muscles clenched together as she tried to create friction. But that was nearly impossible. The wetness he was causing with that single finger was working against her… not that she was complaining, of course. It felt good to have him _finally_ touch her, especially when he pressed the palm of his hand against her mound. His heel grounding against her clit, she couldn't help but moan her approval.

Tugging at him in time with his own thrusts, she wanted to make sure he was getting the same satisfaction she was. And from the way his cheeks and shoulders were turning red, she could tell that he was. But all of that was promptly forgotten when he pushed another finger inside of her. Suddenly fuller, she could no longer focus on him and let go of him.

Immediately breaking the kiss, she exclaimed, "Yes!"

"Shh," he whispered. She looked at him through hooded lids, the words barely registering as he spread the fingers within her. "No need for the neighbors to hear this. I mean, maybe if they were hot, but I think the one has a combined age of –"

"Stop talking," she practically whined. She didn't mean for her voice to be so high-pitched, but at this point, she couldn't help it. "_Oh_." He hit that special spot that made her toes curl, and she closed her eyes to let herself fully experience the delicious feeling.

Her hand moved to his thigh, so she could rock her hips. Dimly she recognized the agitated sound he made; one second she had her hands wrapped around him, the next she didn't, and it was easy to understand why he would be jealous of her pleasure.

But he didn't complain. Truthfully she wouldn't have cared if he had. She was far too consumed by her own needs to bother with any of his. And though there existed the niggling thought that she _should_ care, she didn't.

She had no cares at all at that moment – not for him, not for the things that had happened today, not for _anything_. There was only the feel of his fingers fucking her and the heel of his hand rubbing her clitoris, and nothing else seemed to register in her mind.

Her hips moved freely against his hand. Every now and then she would open her eyes a tad and see the hungered look in his gaze. And she knew that, although he was doing all the work, he didn't begrudge her that fact; if anything, he seemed to enjoy watching her.

Somehow that made it easier for her to fully give in to her need. If he had been impatient or envious, she wouldn't have been quick to move on to something else, but she would have felt bad for making him wait.

Well… just a little… maybe.

In truth it was hard to feel sympathy for him. Her thoughts were not born from cruelty, not by any means. It was just that, at that moment, her mind selfishly focused on the pleasure she wanted. And if he was willing to freely give it to her, she couldn't worry herself with giving him what he rightfully deserved. He would get what he wanted eventually anyway….

Thought seemed to get away from her then, as though it were a tangible thing slipping out of her reach. Her eyes closed, she let her head fall back lazily. Curls tickled her skin between her shoulders and along her back. As he added another finger inside of her, her mouth opened slightly. She exhaled roughly, the air hot on her lips.

He thrust his fingers into her as deeply as he could, touching every bit of her that was available to him. And yet it still didn't feel like enough. Every now and then he would withdraw and let a slick finger trace the outer rim of her hole or dance along her perineum. He was taunting her; she knew it; he was teasing her to drive her out of her mind, and though it was working, she wanted nothing more than for him to just _fuck_ her.

She scooted closer to him, so that her body would rub against his hand better. Slowly he gave her what he wanted, reinserting each finger one by one. Her impatience was obvious, undeniable, and she was sure that was the reason he laughed at her then.

There was nothing derisive about it, nothing dark. It could have been judgmental, but she didn't hear any of that then. Though tormenting her was his favorite pastime, at the moment, she knew she was safe where she was, protected from everything that might hurt her. If he laughed at all, she thought it was because he genuinely enjoyed seeing her like this.

And suddenly she was reminded just how giving a man he was, how _dedicated_ he was to their relationship. She'd never forgotten; what he had done for her today had made it impossible to be unaware of the lengths he would go to make her happy. But he was nothing if not capable of punctuating his points, reiterating them and beating her logic down until his point of view was somehow the only one she saw.

Sometimes she hated that. Right now, she welcomed it, encouraged herself to believe that he could be right about all of this – that nothing could hurt them.

Part of her traitorously thought that it was foolish to think that they were protected from much of anything. There were so many ways this could go wrong that it seemed like nothing short of a miracle that they had made it this far, had lasted this long. And that was a thought she could never fully ignore.

But House, seemingly sensing where her mind was headed, deftly steered her back to the moment with his tongue and hand. His fingers pushed deep inside of her; his lips offered gentle kisses against her clavicle, his mouth purposely avoiding the spot he'd bit her last night. His moves cherished her, and though she couldn't avoid gloomy thoughts, he as always won the argument. Without even saying a word, he brought her back.

The hand holding hers seemed to lead her back to the present, as though he were physically tugging at her. Her focus suddenly returning to the matter at hand, she found herself unable to hold back. Panting, she felt her body meeting every one of his short thrusts. Her clitoris rubbing against his heel roughly, she came quickly.

"Oh God," she cried out, the words coming in a rushed exhale. Her body clenched around his fingers, and her control slipped away from her.

The intense pleasure ended all too fast. Like a light drizzle in a desert, the joy she felt came and went without satisfying her needs.

Her body craved more, for him.

And he knew that. She was nowhere near finished, and he didn't plan on leaving her until she was absolutely sated.

Pulling his fingers out of her, House wasn't surprised that she made a sound that seemed more plaintive than pleased.

"Shh," he murmured against her jaw. "We're not done yet." He moved back on the bed to give himself more space. She watched him almost in a daze, but she didn't respond. Instead she silently allowed him to spread her legs further, his hands on her ankles.

Leaning down, he kissed one of her shins. His mouth slowly migrated to a bony knee. His hands ran along her thighs as he moved between her legs on the mattress. Her skin was pale, soft. Silently he thought of the days long gone since he had first seen her naked body.

She'd been thicker then, filled out especially in her thighs. That freshman fifteen had looked glorious on her, and for years, he'd wished he'd had more days back then to explore every inch of _that_ Cuddy. As he leaned down to kiss the soft flesh, he understood how moronic he'd been to ever want that. He supposed back then he'd made that wish, thinking he would never get a chance to see her naked again.

Obviously he'd been wrong. And while her body had changed, while they _both_ had changed so much, he found himself more attracted to her than he had ever been. He'd liked the extra meat on her bones then; he'd liked the freer, looser party girl she'd been back then. But he no longer looked at that time period with any amount of longing.

Now he could comprehend: had he stayed at Michigan, he would have undoubtedly ruined any relationship they might have had. And truthfully there was still a good chance of that happening, of him screwing things up. But at least now… he could begin to see just how much he needed her in his life. Then he would have believed better things lay ahead for him. Fast forward a couple decades, and he knew that that would never be true. There was nothing better out there, and there weren't enough lies he could tell himself to make that seem even remotely true. The woman beneath him was as good as it got, was far better than he deserved. If he blew it with her, he would spend the rest of his life trying to get her back or hating himself for being unable to do so. The latter seeming more realistic, it made him all the more determined to avoid such an ending.

And if worshiping every inch of her was the way to make that happen, he was all for it.

He kissed her thigh a few times, licked her skin. Nuzzling her, he told her, "You have no idea how hot you are, you know that?" She didn't respond to the question, though the arrogant look on her face said to him that she did, in fact, have a good idea.

But with her hands in his hair, she did say to him, "Show me. Show me how much you want me."

Half of him was inclined to give her what she wanted. The other half wasn't going to go down, literally, without a little incentive.

Moving towards her mound, he let his mouth hover just above her body. "You didn't say the magic word," he said, hoping his breath was hot against her sensitive skin.

The hands in his hair tightened their grip. "I'm not going to ask you nicely."

He wrapped his hands around her wrists and carefully pried her fingers away from him. Pressing her hands roughly into the mattress, he told her, "You like it when I make you say please."

"You can't _make_ me do –"

"I can make you do anything," he said arrogantly.

"Except apparently make me come in a reasonable amount of time."

He contemplated sticking his tongue out at her then, but he decided against it. That would probably just rile her up even more. Of course, he wasn't opposed to that, but if he were going to have fun with her now, he wasn't going to go for the easy option.

"You know that's not true," he told her knowingly.

She shrugged. "You're free to prove that any time you like now."

He repeated himself. "You didn't say the magic word."

She leaned down so that her face was suddenly in his. A smirk on her face, she told him, "I'm not going to beg. Not today."

Since her lips were right there, he couldn't resist kissing her. His mouth met hers in a gentle press. He kept his hands on top of hers as their lips moved together, but he allowed his grip to loosen. Although he didn't say anything out loud, he was at that moment reconsidering his whole approach.

He hadn't been wrong before; she _did_ like it when he exerted a certain amount of control. It went without saying that _he_ enjoyed bringing her literally and figuratively to her knees as well. And while that was not their default or daily dynamic, it was one he was versed enough in to think that that was what she wanted.

But now he was rethinking that.

They were in such a delicate place right now. And the way she'd looked when she'd first come home, like she thought he would never want her again… it had stuck with him. It made him think that perhaps _games_ were not what was needed right now. Toying with her, dominating her – those things were, he thought, better left ignored for the time being. As much fun as that could have been, the chances of them screwing it up, making things _worse_ were high. And what he wanted more than anything at this particular moment was to just be with her.

No games.

Pulling away from her, he looked her in the eye. "Might want to get your stopwatch, babe." His hands moving towards her shoulders, he lightly pushed her back. "Lie back."

She smiled at him as she lay down. He expected, and perhaps wrongly, for some sort of gratitude in her grin, for some kind of relief. But if he could define anything, emotion or otherwise, playing on her features at that moment, it was a sense of victory he detected.

Truth be told, he didn't know how he should take that. Was she trying to manipulate him? Trying to get a rise out of him? Or was she genuinely pleased that he had changed course? Sometimes it was hard to tell, which he hated to admit, because he prided himself on knowing her pretty damn well.

He supposed though the reason behind her smile didn't matter. Well, okay, it mattered to _him_. But that was trivial at this point. He could waste time trying to find answers, or he could give Cuddy one thing he knew she wanted. It might not have been everything she wanted from him at that moment; he might have been missing a few cues, but it was better in the end to under think the whole thing than to over think it and piss her off.

Besides, as he had told himself earlier, now wasn't the right time to play games. If she thought differently (and he doubted she did), then surely she would understand his desire to play things straight. Even if that wasn't what she wanted, she could appreciate that. He refused to let himself think otherwise.

"You don't need to over think this." But those words, uttered many times today, were not ones he heard in his head. They were ones Cuddy said out loud.

He blinked and looked at her. "You're right. Here I was, trying to figure out a good plan of attack and ignoring one very important point." He ran a finger down the length of her slit. "You are so easy."

Bowing his head, he missed the irritation that was sure to be seen in her face. Which was unfortunate, because he would have liked to have seen the change in her demeanor when he made one long lick from her clit to her weeping hole.

His hands holding her thighs open, he could feel her tense. And he would have loved to have seen what her face looked like at the first contact he made with her body. But there was no helping that, obviously, and he pushed the thought aside in favor of the task in front of him.

For a brief second, he toyed with the idea of saying something to her. It felt like there was more to say before he got down to business, so to speak. In the end though, he didn't say a single thing. The longer he took to eat her out, the longer it would be until he got _his_ needs fulfilled. And before he'd nestled his face between her thighs, his desire had seemed manageable, the ability to make a quip or two still there for him. Now, looking at her delicious pussy, all pink and open for him – _just_ for _him_ – he felt as though speaking would have been a waste of his time.

Certainly, he feared that by teasing with her, he would inevitably make his own experience much less satisfying. It was easy to play with your food when you weren't bothered with dessert. In this case, dessert would come in the form of penetration. And if he wasted too much time with the verbal equivalent of making a mashed potato fortress, chances were he'd end up with semen running down her leg or _his_.

As it was, he thought (while simultaneously deciding that the metaphor needed to be dropped), he was already hard. She'd jerked him off for maybe a minute, but touching her, watching her orgasm had kept him stiff and ready to go. Now with her sprawled out in front of him, with her taste on his tongue, his need was all the more obvious to him.

And so he wasted no time in getting her off. Nuzzling her clit with his nose, he inhaled her scent. The sweet smell of her sex filled his nostrils. Pre-cum beading on the head of his cock, he stroked himself a few times before focusing on her needs once more.

The flat of his tongue lapped at her clitoris, licked the swollen bud in quick motions that would drive her nuts. She moaned loudly, and he smiled into her pussy. No matter what she wanted to say, she _was_ easy. He kissed his way to her opening, relishing in her sweet and slightly musty taste. And he corrected himself as he did so; she wasn't easy. Maybe it was his ego, but he didn't believe her past lovers could have done _this_ to her. Someone like Lucas or John-the-douche hadn't made her this wet. As he pushed his tongue inside of her, House thought _they_ hadn't made her scream out as she did for him then. When she cried out, "Oh God, please," he thought _they_ hadn't made her beg like he was doing.

Even if they had, he couldn't help but feel superior then. She'd said she wouldn't ask, but she _had_. And if he weren't so interested in making her come on his tongue, he would have pointed that out. As it was though, he was willing to forgo pointing that out.

Sliding one of his hands up her thigh, he slowly meandered his fingers towards her clit. She moaned as he curled his tongue within her and dragged his thumb over her sensitive bud. The lower half of her body bucked off the bed a little, and he had to pull away to avoid being hit in the face. His hands on her hips, he pushed her back down on to the mattress.

"Careful," he told her, running one of his palms over her mound. "Give me a fat lip, and people are going to start thinking you beat me."

"I don't care." Her voice bordered on being whiny. "Just don't stop."

"I don't plan to. But you have to stay _put_."

He could see her nodding her head and decided that that was enough for him. At the same time though, he didn't actually trust her to stay where she was. She was at that point where she didn't care about much other than orgasming. And he could understand that. He wouldn't pretend like he couldn't understand what she was going through. But he would have been stupid to give her the opportunity to accidentally bump him again. So he pressed one of his forearms to her stomach. Not roughly, not violently by any means – he just kept an arm there in case she were to buck against him once more.

Burying his head between her thighs again, he kissed her labia, her clit. He let his stubble scrape over her sensitive skin. He knew just how much she liked the friction and heat that created. And for every brush of his cheek and nose, for every kiss he offered her, he followed it up with a long, slow lick between her wet folds. He lapped up her juices, which seemed to flow from her freely. Each swipe of the tongue just made her all the more wet.

With his free hand, he slipped his fingers inside of her once more. His mouth hovered nearby. Her body accepted his thrusts noisily, her pussy making soft little wet sounds as he pumped her.

"This is what's going to happen," he told her. "You're going to come all over my face like a good girl."

"Yes." She nodded in agreement.

He withdrew his fingers and replaced them with his tongue. Her muscles clenched around him, not in orgasm but in desire to pull him in as much as possible, keep him _there_. He let her, understood what she was after, and more than anything, wanted to give it to her.

His thumb rubbed against her clitoris, and between that and his mouth on her, she came once more.

She gripped the blanket beneath her violently and moaned loudly. She fought the urge to rub herself against his face as roughly as she could. But as her orgasm took hold of her, that need was one she almost couldn't ignore. She twisted the sheets beneath her, coming hard and in one long irrepressible wave that made it hard to breathe.

Her cheeks burned hotly as she exhaled raggedly. Stars filled her vision, making it difficult to concentrate. And by the time she noticed what he was doing, he'd already managed to roll her over onto her stomach.

The electric blanket seemed even hotter beneath her than it had been. The sudden shock of cooler air on her backside sent shivers down her spine. Or perhaps that was just her reaction to the feel of House's hand caressing her ass. Whatever the reason, it quickly brought her back to her senses.

Instinctively she started to pull herself to her hands and knees. But with a hand on the small of her back, he stopped her. "Stay where you are," he said calmly.

"Okay," she agreed. As she spread her legs once more for him, she was secretly glad she didn't have to move. Between two orgasms and who knew what he'd spiked her tea with, she didn't trust herself to be in a position that didn't require her to stay lying down.

Carefully he covered her body with his. His palms lay flat on the mattress next to her sides, and she had to spread her legs even wider to let him lie comfortably on top. There wasn't much room for her to move, but he was clearly keeping a small distance so as not to crush her.

"This okay?" he asked tentatively.

She shrugged. "You can get closer."

"Yeah?" The world felt as though he'd muttered it into her hair. She nodded her head, and he let his weight rest on her a little more.

"That's nice," she told him reassuringly as he brushed the sweaty strands of hair off of her shoulders.

As he showered her with short, small kisses to the skin, he asked mockingly, "You like it when I'm on top of you? I would have never guessed."

"Shut up."

He did. Falling silent, he calmly guided his cock to her opening. The second she felt his dick against her, she made a noise that sounded like a cross between a squeak and a moan. Her cunt was overly sensitive, and the feel of penis pressing into her was nearly enough to push her over the edge again.

Her teeth biting into her lower lip, she waited for him to enter her. But that took a few fumbles before he was able to actually get inside of her and at an angle he liked. She tried to help as best she could, but with nearly all of his weight on her now, she wasn't able to move much. And her hips being forced into the mattress, it wasn't easy for him to penetrate her. Eventually though, with a few tentative pumps into her, he found the position and rhythm he wanted.

His thrusts were as harsh and quick as he could make them. He was harder than he thought he'd ever been in life, and he wasn't going to last long. Making Cuddy come twice had been the greatest turn on he could possibly imagine. And the way she'd felt around his tongue had made him all the more hungry for his dick to be the thing pumping her pussy. Now that it was, he couldn't hold back. She was probably sensitive, and he tried not to be too rough for her sake, especially since she'd complained in the past day or so about being sore. But it was hard to maintain any semblance of control when he was buried ball deep in her.

At that point, his internal dilemma must have been obvious, because she lifted her head and looked back at him. A worn smile on her face, she told him, "This is nice, but you don't have to hold back."

He kissed her neck in response, muttered as he thrust into her, "Don't wanna hurt you."

"I can take it."

Her words, and the saucy way she said them, made control impossible. Forcefully he shoved his dick inside of her, making her cry out.

"Oh!" she moaned.

He began to pound himself into her, pulling out almost completely before pushing himself back in. His balls slapped against her ass, their thighs meeting noisily. And in the back of her mind, she thought it should hurt, because he wasn't being gentle any longer. But her previous orgasms had made wet and ready for anything he wanted to give her.

And she wanted to take it – all of it.

She was sure she would regret that later on. He was fucking her with so much energy and effort that there was no way she wouldn't be sore later on. But at the moment, that thought barely crossed her mind; all she really cared about then was his hard dick sliding in and out of her slick cunt.

"Yes!" she encouraged, urging him on as he pressed her into the mattress in a way that stimulated her clit.

His hands moved to her shoulders to give himself some leverage. She couldn't move, couldn't escape the _pounding_ he was determined to give her, and he liked that. He liked the idea of her prone and vulnerable beneath him – or maybe it was the fact that he hadn't orgasmed yet that made his mind so hazy with lust that anything sounded sexy at that moment.

He didn't care what the reason was. As his hips picked up their pace, he figured the reason didn't matter. Nothing else mattered but this, but the way she contracted against him as an orgasm hit her unexpectedly.

Leaning down, he snarled in her ear, his voice gravely with desire, "That's right. You come for me. That's what I want."

"Please," she said a few times, her voice pleading as she tried to make the feeling of her orgasm last. Her pussy squeezing him tightly, she nearly begged, "Come in me. Come in me now."

He could practically feel his balls tighten from the tone of her voice. She was so hot there was nothing he wouldn't do for her. And when she was telling him to fill her up with his come, he couldn't resist giving her what she wanted without any hesitation.

Bottoming out inside her, he let himself go. All of the pent up lust he'd been feeling suddenly had an outlet. Unable to hold back the desire he'd let build up, he came with more force than he thought possible.

Feeling him stiffen and ejaculate inside of her, she purposely squeezed her muscles to let him ride the experience out.

When he was finished, he practically collapsed on top of her. And between his sweaty body, hers, and the electric blanket, she was more than ready to push him off of her. But she gave him a few minutes to recover. Though his breathing was hot and harsh against her neck, she waited patiently, forcing herself to revel in how good he still felt inside her body.

It did feel nice. She was warm and uncomfortable, but his penis was still a welcome presence – even if there were absolutely no chance of her orgasming again. He had fucked the desire out of her, and now all she wanted was a nap….

That thought must have been more truthful than she realized, because the next thing she knew he was helping her sit up.

Her eyelids felt heavy, her lashes getting in the way of her vision. Her mind was hazy, like she'd fallen asleep. But she hadn't had she?

"What are you doing?" she asked in a slurred voice that made her think she had been sleeping. When she noticed he was very clearly buttoning up one of her shirts on her, she shook her head in protest. "Don't. I'm hot."

"Electric blanket's off," he told her. "You're gonna get cold."

Her forehead rested against his chest as he finished doing up the shirt. "No, I'm not."

He pushed her back on the bed. As he shoved a pair of underwear up her legs, he said, "Fine. Then let me put it to you another way. You're tired, and you're gonna fall asleep again, and Rachel's going to wake up and come in here. And I don't think you're gonna want her to see Mommy's creampie."

When he put it like that, she couldn't deny it. Still, he hadn't needed to say it like that, didn't need to make it sound so awful. "That's disgusting," she said, lifting her hips so he could pull the underwear all the way up.

"It's the truth."

She blinked unevenly. "Did I fall asleep?"

"While I was putting on pants, yeah."

"Oh."

Although he wouldn't ever say it, he was concerned then. He'd only given her half a pill, but she seemed more out of it than he'd anticipated. True, there was still plenty of time between now and the party they had to go to tonight. They would both, thankfully, have hours to recover. But he couldn't help but pay slight attention to the notion that he'd made a mistake in drugging her at all.

Then again, he also understood that there was nothing he could do about that now. He couldn't get the drugs out of her system. Giving her caffeine could easily make her that much worse; certainly giving her stimulants when she was worried about everything _seemed_ like an awful idea. So really, he had no choice but to accept whatever outcome he got.

Mentally shrugging, he supposed that the best thing he could do now was make sure that she got some sleep. At least then she wouldn't necessarily be as tired as she was at the moment.

"I don't think you needed to drug me," she said quietly as he struggled to get her under the covers.

"Who said I drugged you?"

"Please. I know you."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" he asked, peeling off the sweat and semen-stained electric blanket. That was gonna need to be washed or replaced, he lamented. Folding it up, he decided it was better to hide the evidence of their lovemaking than to let it sit out for Rachel to find – or for Cuddy to freak out over. Sure, he couldn't hide it forever. But if he could avoid Cuddy reacting to that _today_, that was good enough for him.

"I feel drunk," she said after a moment. "And you made me tea."

After he put the blanket on her dresser, he headed towards the bed. Feeling just as tired as she sounded, he wanted nothing more than to relax for a few hours. This day had been _awful_ so far, and no amount of sex could take away from that. If anything, now that they were both clothed, the reality seemed to hit him that much harder. And right now all he wanted was a brief reprieve from all of it.

But then that was easier said than done. Because as the day's events washed over him once more, he was reminded of everything that had happened with Rachel. He remembered what Cuddy had said to him – how all he needed to do was be himself around the kid.

Exhausted and without distraction or the expectation of a quick response, he couldn't help but mull over that conversation. His head hit the pillows, but he couldn't shake himself free from those thoughts. Cuddy wanted him to be himself around Rachel. Or at least she said she did, because, he thought, _her_ words didn't always match up with the reality of her emotions.

And it was because of that that he licked his lips and asked tentatively once more, "You don't think I need to do anything to make Rachel like me? You think I just need to… be myself?"

But a hesitant glance at her, he could see almost instantly that he would never get an answer from her.

Drugged and sprawled out awkwardly on the bed next to him, Cuddy was passed out and asleep.

_To be continued_


	20. Chapter 20

Author's Notes: Thanks to IHeartHouseCuddy, Abby, Alex, HuddyGirl, ladyyuuki16, grouchysnarky, red blood, EllieShelly, dmarchl, paroulis, Temo, Lana, jwhite2199, hughsoulingregsmind, newdayz, JessicaLynH, houseblue, Josam, harvesttime, sandlinerica, and MissBates for taking the tim to read and leave me feedback. It means so much. Thanks, guys!

_Disclaimer: I'm sure Greg Yaitanes has better things to do with his time than write fanfiction. Therefore, I'm not him or anyone else involved with the show._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Twenty: Doubt**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

The feel of someone's hand pushing into her crotch woke her up abruptly. A groan escaping her throat, she was too tired to even open her eyes. But she thought she didn't need to to discourage House. "House," she half moaned, half whined. The hand was followed by a knee. "Oh, for the love of God, leave me _alone_."

A tiny laugh was what she got for a response. It was high pitched, not at all like a man's laugh.

That was when she noticed, in between the giggles, the familiar sound of House snoring. So he couldn't possibly be the one laughing or on top of her.

Confused Cuddy opened her eyes to see Rachel crawling up the bed. "Rachel," she said sleepily. Reaching down, Cuddy pulled her up the rest of the bed. "Come snuggle with Mommy."

Rachel let her pull her into a hug, but she was clearly not interested in lying in bed the way Cuddy was right now. "Can we play a game?"

Cuddy kissed her daughter's shoulder. "In a minute," she slurred. She didn't mean to be this tired or out of it. Normally when Rachel woke her up, she could get up right away and stay awake. But thanks to whatever House had put in her tea, the need to sleep overrode her general nature. "Just… close your eyes and sleep with your mama for a while."

Those words might have worked when Rachel was two or three, when she could be easily convinced that lying in bed with her mother was different than being all alone in her crib. For the most part though, that had changed; Rachel wasn't fooled as often as Cuddy would have liked, wouldn't go back to sleep, no matter what Cuddy said. But there were times when it did still work. Sometimes Rachel really did just want to be held close. Whether that was what she wanted today, Cuddy never knew.

She was asleep before she'd even had a chance to notice Rachel's reaction.

When she woke up again, it was to the sound of a loud bang. She had no idea how much time had passed, but as she shot out of bed, she knew that noises were not a good sign. It had meant she'd been asleep long enough for something to go wrong.

Sitting up, she looked over to House. He was prostrate on the mattress. One arm tucked against his stomach, the other was draped over her pillow. He'd kicked the covers down, so that they only covered up to one of his knees on one leg and an ankle on the other. Sounds were coming from the bathroom, but clearly it wasn't bothering him.

Which meant that, as always, she was the one who had to figure out was going on.

Begrudgingly she kicked the covers off of her body. Her bare legs were not prepared for the cool air, and she shivered the second she no longer had the sheets to ward off the chill. But hearing the sound of something crashing in the bathroom, she didn't bother to put on pants. She simply headed straight to the bathroom and pushed the almost closed door open.

She was anything but prepared for the mess she saw. A half-crushed box of tampons lie in the middle of the floor, a couple tampons strewn about near the toilet and on the bath mat. Her birth control was _in_ said toilet. Toilet paper had been unraveled, and both the tube of toothpaste and bottle of lubricant were spilled on the tile. And standing in the middle of the mess was a disheveled Rachel.

"What did you do?" Cuddy demanded, angrier than she intended. Her head pounded as she hurled the words out. She didn't mean to sound so furious, but she felt hung over and grouchy, and like a dial stuck to one channel, she found herself unable to be patient.

"I –"

"Why did you make this mess?" She clutched her head with one of her hands as her headache seemed to get worse.

"I _said_ I wanted to play," Rachel reminded her.

Cuddy forced herself to inhale and exhale a few times to prevent herself from losing her temper. As awful as this was, she knew she was reacting to the drugs, to _the way her body_ was responding to whatever the hell was in her body. It wasn't about Rachel, and she couldn't let it be.

"You have toys," Cuddy said in a tone that she tried very hard to make it seem calm.

"I got bored."

"Well… that's not an excuse. You can't just…." Her voice trailed off as she noticed the brown pill bottle carelessly laying on the sink. The top had popped off, and several of the pills had spilled out, which made it possible for her to see what drug it was. Her haze made it difficult to get to the conclusion that seemed right on the tip of her tongue. "A bathroom's not…." And then she realized:

It was Vicodin.

Immediately she felt wide awake. All of her senses were heightened, and her heart began to race with the possibility that Rachel had been playing with House's Vicodin. Instantly, Cuddy grabbed the bottle.

"Were you playing with this?" she demanded to know. So much for not losing her temper, she thought. "Were you?"

Rachel was taken aback by the question. "No," she said hesitantly.

"_Rachel_."

"I didn't!"

Cuddy didn't believe her. "Did you take any of them?"

"No –"

"Honey, this is very important," she said sternly. "If you took one, you need to let me know. Even if you didn't think it was bad for you, I need you to tell me if you swallowed one of these."

The seriousness in her voice scared Rachel. Cuddy could see it happening. The more she tried to stress how important this all was, the more her daughter was beginning to think that she had done something wrong. And technically pill or no pill, she _had_ done something wrong, _very_ wrong, in making the bathroom look like this. But all this insistence about the Vicodin took away from that and clearly made Rachel confused and fearful.

"No," she answered after a second. "Don't like medicine. It's yucky."

"Are you sure?" Cuddy didn't mean to badger, but this was as serious a matter as it got. If Rachel had taken a pill because she'd thought it was candy or because she was bored, she needed to say that now. Obviously she was denying it, but that didn't necessarily mean anything, did it?

Of course, by being insistent, Cuddy had guaranteed that her daughter would be too afraid to tell the truth if she had taken some of the Vicodin. She would see her mother, who was being, admittedly, unintentionally hysterical, and she would be too fearful to say what she had done. She would assume that she would be in trouble, and wanting to avoid that, she would lie… even if lying was dangerous in this instance.

"Uh huh. Didn't play with them," she said with a nod of the head.

"You're sure about this?"

"I taked none!" Rachel screamed, apparently having had enough of this line of questioning.

Cuddy's eyes narrowed on her as she made that outburst. "Don't talk to me like that, Rachel," she said firmly. "I'm –"

"No! I don't like pills! And –"

"The next person who screams," a tired voice interrupted. "Is going to be getting a _buttload_ of pills to shut them up if they don't stop yelling."

House wasn't kidding either.

Their squabbling had woken him up minutes ago, and though he had tried to ignore their fighting, they had made that impossible. They had _made_ him get out of bed, when he could have been sleeping, to interrupt their argument.

Glancing around the bathroom, he could easily see why everyone was upset; the room had been trashed. And between that unpleasant sight, the party he was going to have to go to in the near future, and their angry voices, he was in no mood to deal with this fight of theirs.

He would, of course, step in, if only to shut them up. But he'd run out of patience before he'd stepped over the threshold to the bathroom. And if they both insisted on yelling, he really wasn't going to be above jamming a few pills down their gullet as though they were hyper, overreactive, neurotic terriers.

"What is going on?" he asked in that way that said he didn't really _care_ what was going on; he just wanted everyone to shut up.

Immediately Rachel ran towards him. He thought she was scampering to escape, trying to avoid whatever punishment she knew she would get for, evidently, unwrapping several of Cuddy's tampons and squeezing toothpaste all over the place. But Rachel didn't try to duck out the door. She simply moved next to him, as though he were going to protect her from her crazy mother.

He didn't exactly enjoy the picture that painted in his mind. But his discomfort was only surpassed by _Cuddy's_. Seeing her own child seek some reassurance in him seemed to make her angry – and not at Rachel, but at _him_.

He wasn't sure if her irritation was because Rachel seemed to like him at all or because Rachel seemed to think that he would back her up in this fight. The latter certainly would have been a more reasonable conclusion, given the circumstances. Yet House knew that Cuddy could be anything but rational when it came to her daughter. And as much as she said she wanted him to have a relationship with Rachel, sometimes Cuddy behaved as though sharing Rachel was the last thing she wanted.

Of course, he could understand that. Cuddy loved her daughter and wanted to be able to do everything for her. With her job, that was obviously not possible, and he supposed that no one could ever really single handedly give their child everything he or she wanted. But Cuddy was… well, Cuddy. She didn't easily recognize logical limitations or let that stop her from striving for better. Professionally that made her an adept problem solver; _professionally_ it was the reason he had a job at all. Yet that kind of thinking didn't always translate well to their home. She wanted to be the one to give Rachel everything, to do everything for her. And when that didn't happen, when Rachel came to _him_ for something, that was obviously upsetting to her.

Knowing that he was not surprised she turned to him in anger. "I don't think you understand what's going on," she told him in a way that sounded like an accusation.

He didn't deny the charge. "Well, to be fair, I was hoping to understand absolutely _none_ of it on account of being unconscious. But since you both woke me up, I have no choice but to –"

"She got in your Vicodin stash," she nearly shouted.

Suddenly he could understand why she was upset. The problem was two-fold; like everything else, it couldn't just be one thing motivating her fear. Sure, there was the terrifying idea that Rachel had ingested some of the medication. But House knew that in the back of Cuddy's mind, there was an equally problematic concern for her.

_She_ had been the one to let the Vicodin in the house. It was his obviously, but he would have been to content to keep it in his car, in a hollowed out book at work, in his apartment – anywhere else. But she had insisted that it be here. If he were going to take the drug, she wanted it to be as open and blatant as possible so that she could monitor his use. In other words, through no encouragement of his own, she had demanded he bring the drug into their home. And if Rachel had taken any, Cuddy would think how _she_ had been the one to cause that scenario.

She would hate herself for that, and chances were, even if Rachel hadn't swallowed a single pill, Cuddy would regret her actions. Which meant that he could no longer keep the drug here, he thought. She hadn't said anything yet, and it might take her a while to actually broach the topic, but she wouldn't want the Vicodin in her home any longer. Regardless of what she'd initially thought was best for him, she would want it gone in order to protect her daughter.

Truth be told, he was okay with that. After all, it wasn't like he had _wanted_ the Vicodin here. She had created that scenario. But, thinking that her mind was already teeming with personal guilt, he decided that that was not something he should say. In fact, given the way she was reacting, he felt that right now there was only thing to do:

Diffuse the situation as best he could.

Looking down at Rachel, he picked her up. He wanted to be able to look her in the eyes and at the same time, ensure that she couldn't run away.

"Put me down," she whined.

He ignored her. "Did you take one of those –"

"_No_," she snarled, her legs kicking about wildly.

He responded by hugging her to his body.

With her secure in his grasp, he knew he was in no danger of being kicked. She would try; he understood she would try, but she wouldn't be able to hurt him.

Turning his attention back to Cuddy, he said, "She says she didn't take one."

That wasn't enough for her. "And you think she's going to tell the truth if –"

"I think she _is_ telling the truth."

Cuddy wasn't wrong to think that Rachel might lie. Given the way Cuddy was behaving, that actually seemed like a perfectly reasonable response. But House had looked in Rachel's eyes, and he had seen honesty. She had many visible and audible tells when she lied, and he had noticed absolutely none of them.

Cuddy didn't seem convinced. "But –"

"Rachel," he said, not letting Cuddy finish her sentence. "If you took a pill –"

"I _didn't!_" she screamed.

"But if you _did_, we would have take you to the hospital, because you would get really sick. And if you _didn't_ take one, then you'll have tons of fun cleaning all of this up," he explained. "Either way, the next hour or so is gonna suck for you, so there's no point in lying."

Rachel looked apoplectic with anger, her cheeks were so red. "_Didn't. lie_," she said through gritted teeth.

"Then you can start cleaning," he told her cheerfully. Putting her down on the ground once more, he gestured towards the mess she had made. She hesitated to pick anything up, so he gave her a small push toward the spilled tube of toothpaste. "Go on," he said.

Rachel looked like she was wishing she _had_ taken some Vicodin, a pain he was all too familiar with. But she did start to clean up. As she started balling up the toilet paper strewn about the room, he turned his attention to Cuddy, who seemed equal parts angry and confused.

Reaching for her, he tucked his fingers into the waistband of her panties. His button down covered her on that front, but having dressed her, he knew exactly where to hook his fingers. Tugging her toward him, he said, "You come with me."

"House." She was uncomfortable with his hand that close to her vagina when her daughter was in the room with them. Quickly Cuddy shoved his hand away, but she followed him back out into their bedroom anyway. When they were alone once more, she said, "You can't do that in front of her. You can't –"

"You need to relax," he told her gently, pulling her into a hug. His embrace was warm and just what she wanted, but it didn't make her feel any better.

"I can't," she confessed. Her voice turning accusatory, she said, "Whatever you put in that tea…. I can't – I just want to go back to sleep."

"Then do it," he said, like there was nothing else she had to do today, like she could easily just do that without any consequences. "There's still some time."

"No, there's not," she whined into his chest. Rubbing her face against his soft t-shirt, she said, "I need to wake up, start getting ready."

He patted her back. "Then go make yourself some tea or use that espresso machine I got you that you never use and wake up. I'll make sure Rachel cleans the bathroom."

"No." She shook her head. "I don't think –"

"Then do whatever you want," he said dismissively. "But seriously? You're gonna have to put on pants if you're going to keep acting like this. You look ridiculous."

She half scoffed, half laughed. She supposed she did look ridiculous. "Fine," she agreed. "I'm gonna make coffee."

As she pulled away from him, he asked, "Make me a cup?"

"Yeah. Sure. You'll keep an eye on her?" He nodded his head. "All right."

She started to walk away, but he called after her. "I'm serious about the pants thing," he told her. "I see legs and thighs, and I –"

"I will put on pants," she said turning back to him. "If you keep it in yours."

House shrugged. "Okay."

Frankly, given how many times he'd fucked her this weekend, _not_ doing her again was a pretty easy request to handle. He hadn't exactly been kidding when he spoke of the effect her legs were having on him, but sex was the last thing he wanted right now.

"She threw my birth control into the toilet," Cuddy told him, perhaps thinking he really did want to have sex with her.

"Why would she –"

"I have no idea," she said with a shrug.

"Well, thank God your mouth can't –"

"I have another pack under the sink."

That didn't comfort him. "Assuming she didn't build a fort with them."

"I don't know," she admitted. "But I'm letting you know so you don't freak out when you see the pills in the toilet."

He nodded his head. "Understood. I'll try not to cut off my own dick at the prospect of getting you pregnant."

House hadn't wanted to sex to begin with. But knowing that there was a possibility she didn't have birth control, he _really_ didn't care that her legs looked enticing right then. Playing with what existed between those legs could lead to bad things.

He could get her pregnant if he weren't careful and Rachel had ruined all of the birth control in the home.

For that reason it was easy for him to watch her walk away without feeling the urge to jump her.

Turning away from her, he headed back to the bathroom. Rachel was mopping up toothpaste with some toilet paper, which was just making the mess even bigger.

"Don't do that," he told her calmly. She looked up at him, unhappiness putting the frown on her face. "You're just going to make a mess. A bigger mess." Pointing to the tampons all along the ground, he said, "You clean those up. I'll take care of the spill."

She nodded okay, and it wasn't hard to understand why. Picking up Mommy's crotch corks was a lot easier than wiping up toothpaste and lube – as he discovered quickly. As he started to clean up the mess with paper towels and some lemon-scented spray Cuddy kept under the sink, he realized that it was actually going to take some effort. The lube was slick, the toothpaste sticky, and it was hard to get the right amount of traction that would allow him to clean both substances off the ground.

"House?" Rachel asked.

"Hmm?"

He didn't look at her, but she used the applicator to launch a tampon at his face anyway. Then he _did_ look over at her, and she laughed.

"You think that's funny?"

"Uh huh." He made a gimme motion. "Here. Give me another one." She handed him an unwrapped tampon. "That's nothing," he told her, easily getting the tampon out of its plastic applicator.

Two tampons in hand, he gingerly pushed them into his nostrils. When they were in far enough to stay there on their own, he screwed his face up to exaggerate the effect.

Seeing him do that made Rachel laugh boisterously. Unfortunately, it was at that moment that Cuddy decided to return with mugs of coffee in her hand. And when she saw him, she was definitely _not_ amused by his antics.

"What are you doing?" she asked as though he were a complete idiot.

He pulled a tampon out by the string and held it out for her to take. "Nothing, dear. Just getting one of these out for your convenience… since clearly you could use one right about now."

She still wasn't laughing, and he smirked at her in defiance.

"Rachel," Cuddy said calmly. "You're done here. Go play."

The bathroom was barely cleaned, but Rachel was smart enough to know better than to fight. If her mother said she could leave, of course she was going to do just that. And no one was surprised when she took off as quickly as her chubby legs could go.

As soon as she was gone, Cuddy kicked the door shut behind her. "You know I can't use those now, right?"

He pulled the other tampon out and threw both in the trash. "Oh well."

"You shouldn't encourage her to do those kinds of things. Now she's going to want to play in here –"

"No, she's not," he interrupted. "No kid is going to want to play in the bathroom when –"

"If that were true, this mess wouldn't exist," she pointed out, handing him his mug of coffee.

He took a sip. It was sweeter than he liked, but he didn't complain. It was strong, which was really what he needed. The jolt of caffeine made it possible for him to consider her words… and deny that they were true. "You think she's going to come in here to play after your reaction?"

Cuddy gazed down at her feet, her fingers nervously toying with the handle of her own mug.

"Yeah," she agreed quietly. "You might be right about that."

"I am right about that," he asserted.

"Of course. Cause you're _always_ right when it comes to Rachel."

The comment hit a little too closely to home for him to truly react to it with any sort of humor. No, he thought darkly, he was rarely right when it came to dealing with Rachel. Hadn't his own behavior this weekend proved as much?

But he refused to let that doubt show. Though he didn't see any humor in the situation, he forced himself to handle the moment casually.

He stuck his tongue out at her. "Now see, here I was, going to offer to reach into the toilet and grab your birth control myself."

"And now?"

"Well now you can do this all by yourself, the great pant-less wonder," he said, gesturing to her still bare legs.

She smiled. "House, if you don't help me, my birth control isn't going to be the only thing in the toilet bowl."

"I don't understand. You're gonna make me stand in the –"

"I'm going to _drown _you if you get up and leave me," she threatened.

This time he was the one who smiled. "Okay," he said setting his mug to the side. Leaning back against the tub, he held his arms open as though he welcomed the challenge. "Let's see you do that."

"Excuse me?"

"You're threatening to drown me. I'd like to see how you plan on getting me anywhere near the toilet."

She glared at him. "You are infuriating. _And_ I probably have more physical strength than –"

"Yes, I imagine with breasts and an ass that big, it must take considerable effort to remain upright," he said with a nod of the head.

"You're an idiot." She was smiling anyway.

"But I'm not wrong."

Gingerly she placed her mug on the countertop.

"Oh," he said patronizingly. "So it's not enough for you to just be wrong. You need to actually prove that you're not right about this." Without a word she moved towards him. "That's fine," he continued. When she stood in front of him, he told her, "I like being this close to your vagina. That's cool."

She grabbed hold of his t-shirt to try to move him, but of course that wasn't going to work. Her hands moved to his head, and though he said, "Ow," when she tugged a little too hard, she still failed.

In fact, as he roped an arm around her thighs and pulled her near him, all she managed to do was get closer to her. "I don't think this is working," he told her when she was pressed against him.

She stopped pulling at him then. Her body nearly going limp, she abruptly shifted gears. Leaning down she kissed him on top of his head. "Fine," she capitulated. "But if there's ever a fire, you should know I'm not dragging your ass out."

"I would challenge you on that, but I'm not going to set a fire and sit in it to prove you're wrong," he said, running his chin along one of her knees.

"Well that would be a first."

He shrugged. "Don't you worry." He patted her ass gently. "I'll remember this conversation in case there ever is a fire, and we'll see who's right then."

"And if I let you die?"

"Then I'd expect a little haunting to be done."

"You'd turn into a ghost?"

"Oh yeah. I hope your ass is prepared for some paranormal activity." He paused for a moment before specifying, "And I do mean your ass specifically, not –"

"Are you really talking about having sex with me as a ghost?"

Well, when she put it like that, it did seem rather ridiculous. "Sorry," he said immediately. "Cleaning supplies must have –"

"I'm sure."

"So you see, I really can't help you keep cleaning…."

"Fine," she said pulling away from him. "I'll do it all by myself."

He knew what she was doing, giving him the option of walking away so that he would stay. It was a cheap way to make him feel guilty, an easy way, and he understood that. He could see it for what it was. _But_ she had had such a difficult weekend as it was that he could not get up and walk away from this mess. Under normal circumstances, sure, he could do that. Today though it would seem cruel to leave her alone to clean up the entire bathroom. Today when she needed him, to deny her even the slightest bit of help would be wrong.

"Never mind," he grumbled.

She had to turn away from him then so that he wouldn't see the triumphant smile on her face. He liked to think that he was the one who controlled their relationship, and certainly he'd exploited her physical weakness during that last round to show that he could do what he wanted and she couldn't make him do anything different. But in the end, she had won the round. She might not have been able to physically move him, but Cuddy had plenty of other tricks up her sleeves to get what she wanted.

"Oh shut up," he snapped, somehow sensing what she was thinking. "Just because you got what you wanted doesn't mean anything."

"I know," she agreed. "It just means I got what I wanted."

He scowled but dropped the matter altogether. For that she was honestly grateful. She loved him dearly, and they were having a playful discussion, but one wrong remark about who was in charge, and they would be fighting. And the last thing she wanted was to argue with him.

Unfortunately that seemed almost inevitable when, five minutes later, he asked, "Why isn't Rachel doing this again?"

"I don't want her to get dirty before the party."

"Well, I've got the messy part," he pointed out. "It's not…." His voice trailed off in that way it did when he was coming to some sort of conclusion. "You let her go, because you felt guilty for yelling at her," he said knowingly.

"_No_. I just told you what my reason –"

"I know what you said. I also know that that reason doesn't make any sense."

She sighed loudly, reaching into the toilet to grab her birth control pills. Immediately she tossed them into the trash. As they hit the bottom of the can with a thunk, she asked him, "Does it really matter? If I let her go because I feel bad, does it really bother you that much?"

"So you're admitting it," he said, ignoring her question.

"I'm just asking –"

"It would matter to me, sure," he admitted as though that were a given. "You shouldn't let her get away with things, because you feel guilty. Or else, ten years from now, she's going to be like that brat on _The Real Housewives of Jersey_, and _I'm_ going to have to be the one to buy her another car."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ashley or is it Ashlee these days?" he wondered out loud. She could only assume he was wondering, anyway; he certainly shouldn't have been looking to _her_ for an answer.

When he watched that crap, it was generally when he couldn't sleep and she was unconscious next to him. She had no clue what he was talking about, as her only glimpses of the show had been when she'd woken up and demanded he go elsewhere to watch it.

In the end, he didn't wait around for her to give him an answer one way or the other. He simply continued talking. "Whatever. I'm just saying, if she doesn't have to clean up this mess, she'll do it again."

She turned to give him a pointed look. "But according to your logic, I've already freaked out and scared her, and she won't play in the bathroom again. That's what you said."

He frowned. "I don't like it when you're smarter than me."

"I do."

She was happy that he let the comment go without a rebuttal or pointing out that _he_ was typically the smarter of the two. Instead, he simply said, "Well, at least Rachel will be in a good mood since she didn't have to clean up."

Cuddy was doubtful of that though. And fast-forward a couple hours later, she understood that she had had good reason to doubt that.

Rachel had already expressed her feelings over this party. She didn't want to go, and despite knowing there were no other options, she still felt as though complaining were the appropriate way to handle this. Frankly, Cuddy could deal with the whining. She didn't like it, but it was tolerable for the most part, because she could easily ignore it.

But when she tried to get Rachel dressed, it was no longer possibly to pretend that this wasn't happening. "Come on," Cuddy said, practically dragging Rachel into her bedroom. "We need to get you dressed."

"Why? You're not dressed. I wanna play."

"I'm waiting for House to get out of the bathroom, and then I'll get showered and get dressed," she explained.

Rachel slowly moved further into the room. "Then why do _I_ –"

"Because Mommy wants you ready to go." Cuddy pulled open her daughter's closet doors. "Now get undressed."

Rachel stomped her foot. "I don't wanna go."

"I know, but that's not an option."

Understanding that that was the case, Cuddy went straight for the dress she knew would improve Rachel's mood. On the whole, Rachel was neither prone to being girly or tomboyish. She neither loved nor hated clothes for the most part. But she really did _love_ one of the dresses she owned.

It was purple but a shade so dark that it almost looked navy. It was made of silk ruffles from top to bottom, and she loved how soft it was against her skin. More than anything though, she liked being able to twirl around to make the ruffles dance. It was sleeveless and would require a sweater to be worn with it. And the prospect of having to shove Rachel into tights was not exactly one Cuddy was looking forward to. But it would be worth it if Rachel had something to be happy about, something to distract her from all of the things she wanted to complain about.

"Look," Cuddy said, trying to pull Rachel's attention away from pouting. "You can wear your dress."

Rachel's eyes immediately lit up. "Really?"

"Uh huh." Cuddy laid the dress flat on Rachel's bed. "But we need to get you undressed. And you've got to promise me you'll try not to spill anything on it."

"I promise," Rachel said instantly and without hesitation.

"All right. Let's skin the cat."

Rachel held her arms straight up in the air, so Cuddy could peel off the sweatshirt the little girl was wearing.

"Can you take off your pants and your socks by yourself?"

Rachel nodded her head. Cuddy turned away from her so she could discretely pull out a pair of tights and a cardigan. Too busy taking off her pants, Rachel didn't notice.

"Why do you say skin the cat?" she asked, kicking her pants off at the ankles.

"I don't know," Cuddy answered after a moment's consideration. "I guess… my father said it to me a few times when I was little. I guess it stuck with me."

Rachel reached down to tug off her socks. "I don't think it's nice to skin cats."

"No," Cuddy agreed. "It's not."

"Can I have a cat?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You have allergies," she said, turning around with the tights in her hand.

As soon as she did, Rachel saw them. The joy she'd felt instantly died. Her face fell as she understood that her mother wanted to put her in tights.

"No," she whined. "I don't want tights!"

"You're gonna get cold without them, baby," Cuddy tried to explain.

But that didn't make any difference. Rachel didn't want to them, and there was nothing Cuddy could say that would change that. That meant there was no point in trying to rationalize why tights were needed. There was no use in trying to make Rachel understand, because she would always say that she didn't want to wear them.

"Come on," Cuddy said, gesturing with her free hand to the bed. "Sit down, so Mommy can put them –"

"No!"

Cuddy wasn't dismayed. "This isn't optional. You have to wear them. That's all there is to it. Now _sit down_."

The increased firmness in her voice didn't have any effect on Rachel. Or rather they had an effect; it was just the opposite of what Cuddy wanted. Because as soon as she had made it clear that there were going to be tights involved and there was no way around it, Rachel took off – sprinting nearly naked through the rest of the house.

At first Cuddy didn't want to dignify Rachel with the response of chasing after her. She simply called out, "Get back here, Rachel. Right now." When that didn't work, she knew she had no choice but to follow after her.

By then though, Rachel had had enough time to run and hide. She wasn't sure why Mommy hadn't followed after her right away. Normally she was good at catching her and taking her back. But this time, Rachel had managed to run away.

She was happy about that… until she realized she needed to hide. Mommy wouldn't stay where she was for forever. She would realize what had happened and come after her. And she would be mad, so she would be mad at Rachel when she found her, and Rachel didn't want that to happen. Cause when Mommy was mad, that meant it was time out time.

But she wasn't sure where she should hide. Mommy was _in_ her room, so that meant she couldn't hide in there, because Mommy would see her, and it would be easy to catch her. She couldn't run outside, because that wasn't allowed, and even if it was, she was pretty much naked, so she would get cold. She didn't like being cold.

Mommy always checked under the dining room table, so Rachel thought that that wasn't a very good option.

"Rachel." She didn't dare turn around at hearing her mother's voice. She didn't want to see Mommy looking for her or worse, looking _at_ her, so she made an immediate choice to sprint for the nearest hiding spot she could find.

In this case, it was House's office. Actually, that sounded like a good idea, because she wasn't allowed in House's office, and Mommy wouldn't look in here anyway.

But the second Rachel slipped into the room and closed the door behind her, she thought it wasn't a very good choice at all.

House was in there. He was playing a videogame on the television he kept in here, but he clearly saw her. Because the moment she realized he was in here, he asked, "What are you doing?"

"Um… nothing," she lied, not knowing what she should say.

"Do you need something?"

"No," she said tiptoeing in the room further.

He looked over at her. Even from this distance, in his estimation, she looked guilty. She stood there, naked except for a pair of underwear. But written all over her features was fear that he only ever saw when she was worried she was going to be caught for doing something.

Instantly he understood that she was hiding from Cuddy. Whatever she'd done, she had earned her mother's disapproval, and she was avoiding being punished, he figured.

Part of House knew that at that moment, he should have been calling out for Cuddy. She would have obviously been looking for her daughter by then. If Rachel were trying to hide and the quiet manner in which she'd shut the door suggested that she was, then clearly that was because Cuddy was looking for her. And he guessed, although he hadn't read it recently, that it was in the boyfriend handbook that he should have let Cuddy know her daughter was here.

But that wasn't what he did.

Obviously Cuddy would find her kid eventually. It wasn't like Rachel had run away, and his knowledge would help bring her back alive. They were in the safety of their own home, and Cuddy would inevitably discover that Rachel was in here – either because she thought Rachel might hide in here or because she would come ask for his help.

In other words, the matter would resolve itself.

… And really, House didn't feel like getting involved. Maybe he would have under other circumstances, but the ice world was the hardest to get through in _New Super Mario Bros. Wii_, and he'd died so many times already that he was on his last penguin suit as it was. He guessed he could have paused, but given his luck, when he finally got to play again, he'd forget where he was, and a floating penguin would kill him. And if he could avoid the indignity of another continue, he was going to do that.

Still he reached over and patted the bit of couch next to him. "Sit down."

She did though she seemed wary of the offer.

"Take the blanket," he said gesturing with his head to the throw that was on the back of the loveseat. "Cover yourself up. You'll be cold otherwise."

It also would make hanging out with her a little less awkward for him. Somehow her being naked just made the whole thing seem creepy when he knew that it wasn't.

When she'd draped the throw over her shoulders, she asked, "Can I play?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I already started my game. _And_ you need to get ready to go to the party."

"_You_ need to get ready to go to the party," she said like a brat.

He gestured towards the freshly pressed pants and shirt he was wearing. His jacket had been carelessly tossed onto his desk chair, but it was nearby. "I _am_ ready."

"Oh."

"Go find your Mommy and have her get you ready."

"No!" It was clear she definitely didn't want to do that. "I wanna play the game."

"Too bad."

When she tried to grab at the controller, he was quick and moved out of the way. But the damage was already done. The jump his Mario had been trying to make fell short. And his penguined plumber fell into the gap. House tried to get Mario to hit one of the cliff walls so that he could jump back up and stay alive.

But that didn't work.

And Mario died.

"You killed me!" House accused. The dreaded continue screen popped up on the screen.

But that didn't seem to have any effect on Rachel. If anything she seemed _happy_ for the opportunity his death – well, his _character's _death – had given her.

"Now I can play too," she said with a grin.

"I don't think so."

"Because _you_ are supposed to be getting dressed," Cuddy answered for them both.

Instantly House and Rachel looked in the direction the voice was coming from. Cuddy… did not appear happy at all. In fact she seemed downright angry. A finger pointing to a spot on the floor right front of her, she said, "Get your bottom over here right now, or you'll be in time out until we leave."

Rachel hesitated.

"_Now_, Rachel."

She frowned but stood up. Still, she didn't head towards her mother. "I don't want to wear the tights," she confessed sadly.

"I don't care. You are _wearing_ them."

Rachel hung her head and slowly made her way back to Cuddy, who had in the few passing seconds decided to turn her irritation on House.

"And _you_ need a tie."

That caught him by surprise. "Seriously?"

"Yes."

"It's dinner at someone's house."

"Yeah, your _boss's _home," she snapped. "Pick out a tie or I will."

Still it seemed odd to him. "Did I have to wear a tie at his rehearsal dinner? I thought that was business casual."

Her response was simple. "Different wife."

"Which number are we on?"

"Four? Five? Who cares?" she guessed, grabbing hold of Rachel as she tried to slip through the doorway unnoticed.

"We have to wear suits and ties for a wife with a six month expiration date?"

"She's also wife number one. They got remarried. So… yes."

"But –"

"House, I really don't have time to deal with this. Just put on a damn tie."

His point still stood: it seemed like a lot of work to please someone who he would probably never, ever see again. Rationally he understood that he didn't have a choice. This was his boss – and _Cuddy's_ for that matter. And they were going to be surrounded by people far more important than a department head with tenure. He had no problem offending or embarrassing in general, but in this case, he was the lowest on the food chain… which admittedly never really mattered all that much to him. But Cuddy was in a predicament as it was, what with employees selling drugs and the D.E.A. investigating; he couldn't afford to make the situation worse for her. So he would do his best to behave himself.

"Fine," he agreed, making faces at her as she walked away. He would behave, but he wasn't above mocking her in their own home. He guessed though she wouldn't care as long as he played nicely _publicly_.

And he would do that. But getting all dressed up, being nice to the people he didn't care about at all, wasn't exactly how he wanted to spend his evening.

All of that went out the window though the second he saw Cuddy once she was dressed and ready to go.

She looked _hot_.

A voice inside his head whispered that he probably should have figured that out on his own, that if he had to look nice, then she would _really_ go out of her way to look as gorgeous as she could.

Well, he thought as he took in the sight of her in a tight, blue dress rendered in overlapping sheer fabric, she had _more _than succeeded in that department. She was meant to be looked at in that dress with that body. The material lying across her clavicle was nearly see through, and every inch of bright blue chiffon or silk or whatever the hell it was clung to her body perfectly. Simultaneously leaving everything and nothing to the imagination, it was guaranteed to make her the center of attention.

Admittedly given the investigation the hospital was going to be under, she was going to be the center of attention either way. But dressed like that, she was going to have many of the boards' minds on things other than work.

When he went to zip her up, his fingers paused on the zipper. "You sure you want this up?"

She smiled but said, "We have to go."

"Okay," he said helping her with this finishing touch. "But I wouldn't be surprised if you get a dozen offers for a threesome tonight. Which is fine… as long as the offer comes from a really attractive woman."

Turning to him, she said knowingly, "You like it." It was probably intended to be a question, but there was absolutely nothing about the sentence that seemed like a question.

"I do" was his enthusiastic reply. "You look stunning."

She leaned into him then. Her lips nearly on his mouth, she whispered, "Then you should see what I'm wearing under it."

He pulled back so he could assess what possible undergarments she might have been wearing. In his opinion, she couldn't have had anything on under a dress that tonight. Shaking his head, he said, "You're not wearing anything under that."

She smirked. "Believe me, I am."

"Prove it."

"Not now," she said shaking her head and straightening his tie. "We have a party to go to."

He frowned in disappointment. "So you're just telling me that to drive me insane."

"Of course."

He slapped her ass as she walked away from him. "You're a tease," he accused.

Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at him. "I'm not teasing you."

But that was exactly what she was doing. Admittedly he was ready to bone her when she was sick in bed in her pajamas. There really weren't any circumstances when his desire to fuck her was absent, so in a way, she was always a tease to him.

When she looked like that though?

It took all of his willpower to pretend like he wasn't desperate to have sex with her right then and there. Rachel, of course, made that easier by being in such a foul mood over the whole thing.

It was clear that she didn't want to go. She hadn't said anything to his knowledge as to why she would rather stay home, but it was obvious that the last place she wanted to be was with them at this party.

He could understand that, because he really didn't want to go either. He had said he would, though he hadn't wanted to go. But now he _definitely_ would have preferred to stay home. Maybe the weekend had just made him wary, but somehow he felt as though only bad things could result from them going to this party. He would say something wrong or Cuddy wouldn't right things at work, and then the relative amount of bliss they'd achieved during the rest of the afternoon would be _gone_. So he understood how Rachel felt. He wanted to stay home too.

But Rachel was taking this thing to a whole other level. She whined when Cuddy put her coat on. She whined when they got in the car. She whined in the car on the drive to the Sanford Wells' mansion. She whined when they pulled into the long and winding driveway and when they started to make the long trek to the house. She whined and whined and whined and _whined_ until they were at the front door and Cuddy had had enough.

Crouching down so that she could look Rachel in the eye, Cuddy told her, "That's enough, Rachel."

"I wanna go home."

"I don't care."

"But –"

"No," Cuddy said sternly. "That's enough. We have listened to you complain the entire time, and it's not going to work. You are here. You're going to be a nice little girl and play with your friends. You're going to eat your dinner like a good girl when it's served to you, and you are not going to complain about any of it. You're going to be polite. Do you understand me?"

"But –"

"Uh uh." Cuddy shook her head. "That's it. If I hear any more complaints for you, I'll put you in time out _here_, and everyone will know how naughty you're being."

Rachel shifted on her feet uncomfortably. She definitely didn't want that, which was what Cuddy had been planning on. Nothing worked quite like shame; her own mother had taught her that. At the time, Cuddy had hated Arlene for it, but now she understood: embarrassment was a powerful motivator.

"Is that what you want?" Cuddy asked, knowing that the answer would be no. "Do you want people to think you're being _bad_?"

Rachel enthusiastically shook her head no.

"Then stop complaining. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"All right." Cuddy hesitated for a moment before saying calmly, "You'll have fun. You don't need to worry about that."

Standing back up, Cuddy prepared herself for the evening she was about to have. Rachel surely wouldn't be a problem now. The second she saw her friends, she wouldn't be any trouble. But that just left everything else as a possible source of conflict.

House must have noticed her reluctance, because he looked for her to give him some sort of sign that it was a good time to ring the doorbell. That took her a few moments, to muster up the courage necessary to start this whole process. But when she did, she nodded her head.

Seconds later when a butler opened the door, Cuddy was reminded why she had always thought this particular marriage was doomed to fail. Sanford Wells, for all of his wealth and power, was a fairly down to earth guy. He liked Buffalo wings and basketball games; he liked living in a fairly suburban neighborhood, though it was definitely an upper class neighborhood. He did not particularly appreciate or care for the finer things in life, and rumor had it around the hospital that, in fact, he had never been a successful heart surgeon; he was simply frugal and had managed to amass wealth by never spending it.

Cuddy knew that that was definitely _not _the case. He had money. But as event staff took their coats and her purse, she remembered that Wells was rarely interested in showing off.

In contrast, the first Mrs. Wells, now also the fourth or fifth, depending on whose count you believed, needed her riches to be on display. She was not a tacky woman by nature; if anything, Cuddy had always found her to be a woman of refined taste, an intelligent, successful board member in her own right. But this woman clearly had no qualms about turning a holiday party into an extravagant affair. Everything about their home and this party spoke to how interested she was in making everyone else appreciate _their_ wealth.

Yet Cuddy was polite the second she spotted their hosts.

"Dr. Cuddy," Wells called out to her, approaching her with a frosty wife on his arm.

"It's nice to see you," Cuddy said to him, as he leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. "How are you, Arianne?"

"I'm fine," she said with a tight-lipped smile. It was the kind of expression you made when you felt as though your present company were painfully awful. Cuddy knew this, because she was sure her own face held the same expression. "And yourself?"

"Good," Cuddy said in an equally false conversational tone. The two women had never been friends or even liked each other very much; this was as nice as their conversations got.

Wanting to distract from that, she said, "I'm sure you're familiar with my partner, Greg House." House didn't say anything, because his gaze was on a woman ten feet away from him who had large breasts. Cuddy forced herself to ignore that, although she violently squeezed the hand of his that she was holding. "And this is my daughter, Rachel."

Rachel waved shyly but didn't speak. Cuddy hadn't expected her to though. Although Rachel wasn't a quiet child – or a shy one – she was not the precocious life of the party. She preferred to be ignored at evens like this, because really, in all honesty, what she wanted was to be home in her pajamas watching a movie.

Frankly Cuddy understood the impulse.

"Yes, hello, Dr. House," Sanford Wells said, forcing House's attentions away from the other breasts in the room. House also did not speak though. He simply inclined his head in respect. "I hope you don't mind, but I do need to speak to your boss for a little bit."

House shrugged. "I don't mind that at all."

"Wonderful. It won't take but a moment." Wells said this as much to House and Cuddy as he did to his wife, who seemed agitated at the very idea of her husband spending any time with Cuddy.

Which… was understandable, given the history there.

But Cuddy preferred not to think about that. Rumors of that relationship had already tainted enough in her life.

"I understand," she said, having anticipated this moment the entire time.

"You have some things to discuss," Arianne said, as though she were deducing the reason behind this private conversation that needed to take place.

"It's business, dear."

"Of course. In that case, Dr. House, I assume you're a whiskey drinker." From the look on his face, Cuddy knew he wanted to tell Arianne that at this moment, he was a bleach drinker if that was going to make this party a little less unbearable. But he simply nodded his head in her direction. "I have a bottle of Glenfarclas, 50 years old, from 1955. Have you heard of it?"

She didn't give him a chance to answer the question before she looped an arm through the arm Cuddy herself wasn't holding on to. "Come. I'll let you have a glass. I wish to know how it tastes, and unfortunately, my health doesn't permit me to do so at the moment…."

Cuddy let her take him, though she had no doubt that that conversation wasn't going to end well for her own relationship with House. Nothing Arianne could tell House was going to be good. But for the time being, Cuddy couldn't worry about that now.

"You know, Rachel," Wells said to her daughter who was practically clinging to her hand. "I think you have some friends here. They're playing games in that room right over there," he said, pointing to a room down one of the long hallways. "Why don't you go see what they are up to?"

Rachel looked to her for reassurance. Cuddy did her best given the circumstances. A hand smoothing Rachel's hair back, she said, "Go on, honey. I'll come find you in a little bit, all right?"

To say Rachel looked unenthusiastic was an understatement. But she must have known that she had no other choice, because without much hesitation, she started to trudge her way through the other partygoers down the hallway.

Finally alone with Sanford he gestured to a hallway that started on the right side of the room. "Shall we?"

Cuddy nodded her head. "Of course. I was expecting this conversation."

He smiled genially as he guided her down the hall to his office. The second he opened the door, she was not prepared for John Kelley to be standing there.

"Lisa," John said, almost silently imploring her to remain calm.

Instantly Cuddy regretted both coming here and letting House go. She had no interest in being alone with John, no desire to be with the man who had kissed her earlier today without any regard for what she wanted. She didn't want to talk to him, though she had created this charade with him.

In the back of her mind, a betraying voice whispered how she had ensured that this scenario would happen. She had asked for John's help. She had, as House had pointed out, kept the check – which would only make John think that perhaps he still had a chance with her. And now John was _here_.

"Hi," she said breathlessly feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of her.

Closing the door behind them, Sanford said, "I'm sure you two know each other very well."

"Yes, of course," Cuddy answered, forcing herself to remain calm. She could not let John think that he had gotten to her. Though he _had_ obviously upset her, the last thing she could let happen was for this to become a professional problem. "How could I forget the face of our best donor," she said with a smile that felt as forced as it got. "I didn't realize you were going to be here."

She tried to make the comment sound as though it were merely an interested one. It could have been an accusation, and in a way it was, but that was not what she wanted her boss to hear.

"Well," John replied calmly. "I was watching the news, and I saw a story about Princeton Plainsboro. Naturally I wanted to make sure that there wasn't a problem with the investments we've made recently."

Cuddy shook her head a little. "Problem?" She didn't understand.

"Mr. Kelley here –"

"John," John corrected.

"Of course," Sanford Wells said apologetically. "_John_ is aware that the D.E.A. has decided to investigate our hospital."

"I wasn't aware the press had gotten wind of this."

"Apparently they have. I think it's safe to assume that we're going to receive some blowback for this from our investors," Sanford told them both. "In fact when John showed up here, I was concerned that he wanted to withdraw the funds he has given us for the year."

"I won't lie," John admitted. "My uncle isn't going to be pleased about this, and our support will probably be lax for the next month or two. But I was telling Sandy here that there should be no problem with the donation I made to you guys a couple days ago."

Suddenly feeling like she was on the page as the other men in the room, Cuddy nodded her head in understanding. This was, after all, a lie she had created. It wasn't hard to know where to pick up from there.

"I'm glad to hear that," she said. As soon as she did that though, she couldn't help but think that there was some sort of odd subtext to the whole thing. No, she had never believed that there would be any sort of problem cashing the check. After what John had done, it was obvious that he would be stuck allowing the money to go through. Unless he wanted to be slapped with a sexual harassment suit, he really had no other option other than to pretend as though he was on good terms with Cuddy.

Yet at the same time, she had feared that he would create some sort of problem with the check. Outwardly he had every right to withdraw his company's financial support. And part of her had worried that he might do that just to spite her. But here he was saying that he had no problem giving the hospital the money, and she couldn't help but think that his supposed reluctance had had nothing to do with the imbroglio they were in currently.

"I would hate," he explained, just furthering that feeling inside her. "To think that a few poor choices by a couple misguided employees would ruin all the good work you all do. And I'm happy to help in any way I can."

"That's wonderful," Cuddy said, not knowing whether or not she meant it at this point. "I'd planned on calling you Monday," she lied. "To tell you what the hospital is about to experience. I apologize for not being the one to warn you."

Wells was the one to accept the apology. "I'm glad things worked out this time, Lisa." The use of her name caught her attention. "You've obviously been of great service to the hospital. But if we hadn't received John's assurances of a large donation, I'm not sure I would have been able to protect you from the rest of the board. I am glad that's not in my future, thanks to John."

Taken at face value, his words hurt. It was clear from what he was saying that, no matter how much she had done for the hospital, she would have had a hard time convincing anyone of keeping her if she didn't have that check to hand over. He was saying _John_ was the reason that difficult conversation wouldn't take place.

Admittedly that wasn't exactly something she didn't know. After all, hadn't that been why she had gone to him in the first place? She knew it had been, but hearing it nevertheless hurt.

Especially since she knew Sanford Wells well enough to understand that his comments weren't meant to solely be taken superficially. There was an undercurrent there, a silent order that, if the board had to choose between her or John's contributions, they would not side with her. He would encourage them to choose her, but the money would win out in the end, so she'd better maintain that relationship.

Sure, that sounded like an almost insane amount of subtext, and someone might argue that she was reading into his words far more than she needed to. But she had worked with and known Wells long enough to understand when he was getting at something. He was a man of few words, and he always made sure to make the sentences he did utter as potent as possible.

She was not imagining things.

A forced smile on her face, she said sweetly, "Believe me, I know he's my knight in shining armor. I'm very lucky to have had –"

"Don't be modest, Lisa," John interrupted. To Wells, he explained, "She's spent a lot of time keeping me happy. The least I can do in return is ensure that the hospital will remain under her expert guidance."

At that Sanford Wells smiled. "I'm glad to hear that, and I'm thrilled for all of us, most especially the hospital, that this situation is at least in part on its way to resolving itself." He made a big show of glancing down at his watch. "I'm sorry to cut this conversation short, but I just know that if I skip out on my own party for any longer my wife will be cross with me. Excuse me."

There was no expectation that she or John would follow after him. And though it probably would have been smart for her to do just that, she stayed behind. House had said she wouldn't let herself be alone with John, that she wouldn't give him another chance to pull anything. In the back of her mind, she knew she was proving her boyfriend wrong. But this was too important to let go. If John had something to _her boss_ of all people, she knew she needed to put a stop to that.

"What did you tell him?" she asked when she was sure Wells wasn't within hearing distance.

John held up a hand as if to tell her to calm down. "You wanted to make it seem like I hadn't written the check just to get you out of this jam –"

"That's not the way I would like to put it," she said simply.

He nodded his head in understanding. "I thought if I came here, made it seem like I was worried about the money going through and your scandal –"

"How did you find out about that?" she asked. She had told him she wanted the money; she had not told him why.

"It _is_ on the news now, Lisa."

"Oh."

"I thought it would all be more believable if I acted worried," he explained. "I'm not, by the way. I have complete faith in you."

The fact that he clearly meant it didn't make it any better. Hours ago, he had completely abused her trust, and the sting of that betrayal hadn't gone away. He might have had faith in her, but what did his faith mean to _her_?

"So you thought that you'd also take this time to tell him that we're not getting along," she accused.

"I didn't tell him anything about that," he said honestly.

"Right." She didn't believe him. "He just –"

"Noticed how unhappy you were to see me," John suggested. "I didn't say to him that we'd had a fight. That's not exactly a moment I'm proud of, and he seems to care about you an awful lot."

She nodded her head. "He does."

"Why would I tell him that I kissed you?" After a brief pause, he added, "How _could_ I when you didn't want him to know that you came to my house today?"

That was a good point, but it didn't matter to her. "Forgive me," she said sarcastically. "If I question your ability to think logically after what you did."

He looked hurt, though she didn't feel sorry for what she said. "Are you ever going to forgive me for that?" he asked quietly.

"You haven't even _apologized_," Cuddy snapped.

"You're right," he admitted after a moment. "I haven't." He sighed. "Look, Lisa, I want you, and I'm not gonna apologize for that. But… I shouldn't have kissed you. That wasn't right of me."

"No, it wasn't." Maybe she shouldn't have been making this more difficult for him, but she didn't care. She was in no mood to make things easier for _him_. After all, he hadn't been considerate of _her_ needs. He hadn't thought of her feelings when he'd kissed her. She didn't think he deserved any more than he had given her.

"It was hasty of me… and I didn't think about how you might react to it, cause I wasn't really thinking. I just wanted you. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"No, it won't," she agreed firmly, unsympathetically. He seemed dismayed that nothing he had said had made her warm up to him. "If you say you're sorry, then fine." She shrugged. "I guess I can believe that. But what you did isn't something I'm going to move past just like that. You _kissed_ me. You've been investigating my boyfriend, _spying_ on him. That wasn't a sudden choice. You didn't just decide to do that," she said knowingly. He might have wanted her to believe that it had been a _hasty_ decision, but it was anything but that. His actions had proven as much.

"I shouldn't have done that," he told her, sounding as earnest as she thought he could possibly sound. "I just wanted to know that he was going to treat you right. I didn't want you to be with someone who –"

"That's not your responsibility. And ultimately none of your business."

"I know." He looked down then away.

"I'm _happy_," she declared. "Regardless of your feelings for him, he makes me happy."

"Does he?"

The question was honest. That was the part that bothered her. It would have been easy to disregard it if he were asking out of anger or jealousy, if he were trying to manipulate her. But there was no malice behind the words, making it impossible for her to resort to anger. Perhaps she should have gotten irate with him. But if anything, the question made her sad, that he would assume she would stay in an unhappy relationship. He thought that little of her.

"Of course he does," she said in softer tones.

"Because it seems to me that a guy like that must come with a lot of baggage. And even if you love him, that can't make it easy all the time."

She shrugged. "Everyone has problems. We –"

"I just can't imagine that all that work is worth it," he said casually. "But…." He sighed, obviously resigned to the truth of the situation. "That's not my call to make, and I shouldn't have tried to force you to… I don't know, _want_ me."

"Thank you."

"But you're still mad at me," he deduced.

She shot him a conciliatory look. "It's not that simple."

"It never is."

"I need time," she explained. "I need to know that I can trust you again. That's not going to happen with one apology."

He nodded his head. "Okay."

She repeated herself, feeling as though the point were worth making again. "I need time… and John, if House sees you here, we both know what will happen."

"I wouldn't hit him."

"You would." He seemed hesitant to believe the idea, but she knew that was exactly what would happen. "He'll _guarantee_ that that happens, and if you hurt him, there's nothing you can say, because I will protect him."

John clearly didn't like that. "So he'll piss me off so much that I hit him, and that'll be my fault." He laughed then, but there was little humor in the sound. "You must really love him to put up with him."

"I do."

"I'll leave," he said decisively. "I just hope he's worth all the trouble for you, Lisa."

Her instinct was to assert that House absolutely was. Most of the time she thought that was true, but today she had trouble opening her mouth and speaking those words. As much as she loved him, this weekend had proven that they were… at times so far from domestic bliss that that goal didn't even seem remotely attainable.

And the thing of it was… they had worked through so much already. They had compromised and fought for this relationship with everything they had, all in the hopes that they would eventually get to some magical other side where things were automatically better. But all this time later, it seemed as though they were no closer to attaining that.

Part of her felt that they just had to work a little more at it. They just had to try; he had to get along better with Rachel, and Cuddy had to let him in their lives a little more. She had to be willing to share responsibility for Rachel with him. They just had a little more work to do before things could truly be perfect.

But then there was another part of her that wondered if that was how good relationships lasted or if theirs was simply one that would always be difficult.

She would never say that to _John_ though.

And then Cuddy couldn't defend her relationship even if she wanted.

Because _finally_ John had left.

_To be continued_


	21. Chapter 21

Author's Notes: Please note that there is a slight mention of animal cruelty in this chapter. The act happened in the past, so it's just a character's recollection, but I felt it was worth a warning for those sensitive to that issue. Thank you to LapizSilkwood, grouchysnarky, MissBates, sandlinerica, Huddyphoric, Josam, Marnic, dmarchl, EllieShelly, red blood, Alex, fantasiadvd, KNITTYWOMAN, HuddyGirl, Lana, Abby, savinglives44, IHeartHouseCuddy, JessicaClackum, and AdieAngel for taking the time to leave me reviews. I appreciate you doing that.

_Disclaimer: The show belongs to other people. Clearly._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Twenty-One: A Game of Chicken**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

Taking the proffered snifter, House did not drink from it. The smell of the alcohol was tantalizing, and part of him thought that it would, for sure, make the party all the more bearable if he were to drink from this rare bottle that he would never have a chance to sample again. But his curiosity for the taste was outmatched by the intrigue of Arianne's behavior.

He had never met her before. Unless he was imagining things, he was sure that he had _seen_ her walking around the hospital, and because of that, there was a good chance he'd insulted her a time or two. But he hadn't ever _really_ met her, much less talked to her. And yet, he had seen her discomfort around Cuddy, and in turn, he had noticed _Cuddy's_ unease around her.

Instantly he had known that there was a history there that he had not been privy to, and then, no matter his interest in the alcohol, the only thing that mattered to him was hearing about said history.

Naturally he could only assume that Arianne had every intention of telling him the truth. House had trouble believing she would decant what was considered the eighth most expensive bottle of booze for just anyone or for the trivial reason of wanting to know what it tasted like. Maybe she would if she were an idiot, but Arianne had gone through the trouble of taking him to the elaborate, temperature-controlled wine cellar, which had stacks of wines and fine liquors from ceiling to floor. Had this been a move of sheer stupidity, she would have brought the bottle out for everyone to sip from. But she had brought him _here_ into this stone enclave away from the party. She had brought him here to tell him what she knew.

Because of that, he didn't bother with the niceties. The second he had the glass in his hands, he got right to the point. "So this is the part where you tell me something dark and seedy about my girlfriend, right? Just so I'm clear where we are in this little charade."

She, however, wasn't interested in getting straight to the point. "You should drink that. It's –"

"One of one hundred ten bottles made, originally bottled in 2005 exactly fifty years to the day after it was initially distilled," he said with a nod. "I know what it is. Considered possibly one of the best malts released by Glenfarclas. If you're sharing it with me, I can only assume you have an ulterior motive for bringing me here. Especially if _you_ have no interest in drinking yourself."

She folded her arms across her chest, her diamond bracelet lightly snagging on the red satin ruffles across the front of her dress. "I can't. I'm pregnant."

House shook his head. "_No_."

"No?"

"Let's just say with women your age, if you're not getting your period, it's the result of a different phenomenon altogether."

Arianne was not fazed by his words. He didn't wonder why. Based on the number of years he'd seen her in the hospital and the number of marriages Sanford Wells had had between his first wedding to her and this latest one, House had an idea of how old she was. Surely, she was older than Cuddy, though not by much, but those years barely showed in her features. Few lines marred her attractive face, and he knew that wasn't the result of Botox, because her disgust for his girlfriend had been more than obvious. Her dark corkscrew curls framed her cheeks nicely, not even the slightest hint of gray in the locks. And he didn't know if that was a dye job or what, but either way, regardless of the number of years, she looked _young_. No matter what he said, she didn't need to worry about being perceived as old, because a woman like her would never resemble her years.

What she said though was, "Really?" Smirking she reached over onto one of the shelves. Grabbing a folder he hadn't noticed before, she handed it to him. "My lab reports. Does that look like menopause to you, Dr. House?"

He set his glass down on another shelf that he was near. Silently he opened up the folder and quickly skimmed through what looked like the results of CVS testing. He looked back up at her. "You brought me down here for a consult?"

"These are just the preliminary results, but I wanted to know if you saw any reason as to why I should abort."

House looked at her carefully. "Are you looking for a reason to abort or –"

"No," she said calmly without any particular vehemence behind it.

"That's interesting, because you don't seem to care either way which –"

"I don't," she admitted. "The antibiotics I was taking made my birth control less effective, and though my dear, _aging_ husband said he would pull out before he ejaculated, when it came time to do it, he forgot. Hence, I've opened his prized liquor and decided to give some to you."

Instantly House reached for the drink he'd set to the side. The mental picture her words were providing suddenly made alcohol a necessity, and when he swallowed the booze, he also bit back the bile rising in the back of his throat. "Yeah, that's an image that's gonna be hard to forget."

She took the snifter from him and refilled his glass. But she didn't give it to him. She just said, "Tell me what your opinion is first."

"You said this was a preliminary report?" He asked the question though he barely knew how to muster up the interest to listen to her mutter the affirmative. As soon as the words escaped his mouth, he was beyond caring about her response; his mind was focused on the test results in front of him. "There are no anomalies in this."

She didn't seem relieved when he looked back up at her. "But even if the full report says the same thing, it wouldn't detect neural tube defects, would it?"

"No. And given your age, you should probably have an AFP done to make sure."

"Then when can I come see you to have that done?"

He resisted the urge to laugh. "Yeah, see, one perk of banging the boss is that I don't have to draw blood or do those tests."

"Fine," she said immediately. "But if you agree to consult on the remainder of my pregnancy, I'll tell you right now why I don't like your girlfriend."

It was a tempting offer. He wouldn't deny that he had half a mind to agree to her terms right then and there. But hearing her say that she had a problem with Cuddy forced him to play it cool.

"No," he replied sharply. "You tell me what your issue with Cuddy is first, and _then_ I'll consider a consult. _One_ consult."

"If I'm going to tell you anything, it's going to be with the understanding that I'll have access to your medical expertise whenever I want, that you'll consider it at least. And before you say no, I should remind you that I am empowered to have you fired."

He was not fazed in the least by her threat. "I have tenure."

"Which can be revoked."

"You'd need the rest of the board's approval. And if having sex with one of them for the last several years hasn't earned her loyalty, I'm not –"

"I thought you might make that point," she said with a smile. Her hand smoothing back one of her dark curls, she added in a tone that wasn't quite as friendly, "So allow me to make one of my own. Replacing a board member is much easier than firing someone with tenure. And given this _scandal_ Dr. Cuddy seems to find herself in, I don't think it would take much to convince my husband and our colleagues that she is no longer suited for –"

"You're going to fire Cuddy because I won't consider consulting throughout your pregnancy." He made his doubt apparent, calling her bluff.

Her response was immediate. "I would fire her for many reasons. Up until now, I have chosen to work with her out of considerations that don't involve you. But I am willing to rethink that if you force me into that frame of mind."

It was not in House's nature to enjoy being manipulated or threatened. Well, he supposed that no one ever appreciated being blackmailed. But he guessed that others were more willing to back down when forced; others didn't have the same compulsive need to challenge the rules like he did, and therefore it was that much harder for him to let Arianne walk all over him.

He really didn't want to agree to her terms. He _really_ didn't.

But what choice did he have? Although Cuddy hadn't done anything wrong, this scandal could easily reflect poorly on her. And someone like Arianne certainly had the muscle to guarantee that that happened. Then again, maybe she didn't. She seemed to have enough animosity for Cuddy to have acted on it in the past, and if she hadn't, House couldn't believe it wasn't for a lack of effort. So perhaps Arianne didn't have the power she thought she did.

He couldn't bet on that though. Maybe it was his instinct to do so, but he _couldn't_ do it. Because while he would eventually be affected, the person who would be affected first and foremost was his girlfriend. Even if she didn't get fired, that didn't matter. Arianne had enough clout to create the question as to whether or not Cuddy was good enough at her job.

Truth be told, he thought that Cuddy probably already worried about that. She had done as good a job as anyone possibly could to hide the frustration and fear this kind of situation inevitably caused. Certainly John's kiss had provided a tiny distraction from all of that, and House guessed the whole debacle with Rachel this afternoon had done that as well. But those distractions hadn't been ones to relieve her of her concern, and if she'd been acting crazed all day, he knew it was because everything she was feeling was coming to a head. She was getting to that point where she could no longer deny how all of this was making her feel, where all of her worries were so obvious that they seemed written on her face.

And he had seen it, all of it. No matter what she'd tried to hide, he'd noticed it. Then, he hadn't had a chance to do anything to make the situation better. Sure, he'd done his best to make _her_ feel better, but fix the situation? There had been no way he could do that then. She was his _boss_, and he couldn't protect her from much of anything professionally, a fact that he resented and was perpetually mindful of for many reasons.

But _now_, Arianne had changed that dynamic. She was giving him the opportunity to protect Cuddy from being fired, from facing an inquest possibly; it was hard to know what exactly he would be sparing Cuddy from, because Arianne was smartly keeping the specifics under wraps. Even without knowing exactly what she intended, he understood that he had a chance here to protect Cuddy. And if he didn't take that opportunity, what would that say about him? That being defiant meant more to him than Cuddy? That, for all of his attempts at making her feel better, he would willingly make her life worse in order to maintain his own comfort?

He couldn't do that.

"I'll consider it," he said flatly.

"You'll do it."

There was a pause as he worked up the ability to eventually say, "I'll do it."

"How sweet – protecting the woman you –"

"Get to the point."

She pulled the file out of his hands. "I'll have this faxed to your office tomorrow morning." After she set the folder to the side, she handed him his drink back, which he was grateful for. He didn't show his unease by sipping it, but secretly he was relieved to have alcohol at his fingertips once more.

Not that it would make anything better. He knew it wasn't going to. But at the same time, he thought it couldn't hurt either.

"Now that that's taken care of," she said in a voice that would have sounded cheery coming from someone else. "I'll let you in on a bit of history. It's unfortunate that you would be willing to do something you obviously don't want to do for someone like _her_."

"As fun as it is to hear you _imply_ there's something wrong with my girlfriend, I'd prefer you just come out and say something offensive – preferably about her breasts or giant ass, so that I may at least think of those things while you're talking."

"She slept with my husband."

The words didn't register with him immediately. He understood what she was saying, but it had no meaning for him. Did she mean Cuddy had slept with Sanford Wells years ago – like the last time Arianne was married to him? Or was she trying to convince House that Cuddy had been cheating on him?

He didn't believe the latter. Unfortunately for Arianne, her timing was awful; he'd seen just how adverse Cuddy was to the idea of having an affair. John had been the one to kiss her, but she'd still reacted as though she'd done something wrong, and it was impossible for House to believe then that she would intentionally sleep with another man.

"Years ago," Arianne clarified before he could even demand that she do so. "That's why we got divorced. I knew he was cheating on me, and it turned out that she was the one he was having the affair with, most likely so that she could get the job she current possesses."

She lost him there. He could believe that Cuddy had had sex with Wells. He didn't _want_ to believe that, but he guessed it was possible; it could have happened though it made him nauseous to picture _that_ pairing. Under no circumstances could he believe that she had used sex to get her job.

People who did that had no other options or suffered from a lack of imagination. Cuddy was one of those individuals who had nothing _but_ options. She was incredibly smart, which was why she'd easily been able to succeed in med school classes she'd audited when she'd been a teenager still. She was… charismatic and ambitious, and all of that had made her poised to get whatever she wanted professionally. The fact that she was _hot_ absolutely made it easier for her; how many men had she conned donations from by inadvertently distracting them with her beauty, he wondered. But he would never believe that she had purposely traded sex for a job. Why would she when she had no reason to?

She wouldn't.

But in taking the time to come to that conclusion, House had given Arianne the impression that he agreed with her.

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding more honest than he expected.

Immediately he made a face of confused shock, an emotion displayed for her benefit only.

"You feel betrayed," she supplied.

"Of course, I do," he said with a dramatic nod of the head. "All my life, I was told once you go black, you never go back. Either I've been lied to all this time or my penis is just that –"

"You want to joke about it, so that I won't know how bothered you are that it's the truth."

He refused to agree with that. Whether or not she was right was irrelevant to him at that moment. What mattered was making sure he didn't give her any ammunition against Cuddy. Even though at that particular second he wasn't exactly feeling protective of her, it was truly the least she deserved.

"Yeah, that's exactly it," he said with heavy sarcasm lacing every word. "Because, when I started dating a woman in her forties with a child, my first thought was she seems like a virgin, sure."

"_A_ child, yes. Someone else's," Arianne said with just barely suppressed glee. "And from what I understand, a mediocre orphan at best. So how could –"

"I get it," he interrupted out of irritation. "You want to piss me off in the hopes that I'll want to punish her for the conversation we've just had and ruin her night, which would make you happy. But that's not going to happen."

She wasn't convinced. "Oh but I think it will."

"I don't care. Because even if you're right, you're still forgetting one thing."

"What's that?" she asked in a voice that was nearly breathless. Just the idea that she might have gotten to him, that she might cause Cuddy pain, had her on the edge of her seat.

"You've just convinced me to monitor your pregnancy," he pointed out coldly. He took a step closer to her as the thought hit her. In the back of his mind, he knew it was stupidly wrong to do it. But in the cool air of the wine cellar, away from the party, it felt appropriate to then threaten her, "Make fun of my kid again, insist on needling me about my girlfriend… and who knows what will happen during your next exam?"

He did not expect her to back down. In the few minutes he had been talking to her, House had figured that she was not the kind to cower away. And indeed, she didn't. Her face remaining impassive, she asked calmly, "Do you think it's wise to say things like that to your boss's wife?"

"Sure. Accidents happen. There's no harm in saying –"

"They don't happen to _you_." He pretended to be shocked. "You're Doctor House. You're _always_ right."

"No, I'm almost always _eventually_ right," he corrected. "There's a difference. Given your age, your husband's age, the fact that you were talking about wanting to sample alcohol in front of a group of people, and then specifically requested my medical advice – there isn't a person out there who would be surprised if something were to happen to –"

"And you would purposely jeopardize the health of my child because I don't like your girlfriend." There was a hint of doubt, disbelief that he would go so far or that she had earned such wrath.

House shook his head. "I don't care that you don't like her. But insulting our kid who has absolutely nothing to do with any of this? Using _me_ to hurt Cuddy? _That_ I am going to have a problem, which you should know going forward from here on out." He quickly drank down the rest of the liquor in his hand. Placing the glass down noisily next to him, he said in a dark voice, "I'd hate for us to have a misunderstanding."

"No, we're perfectly clear with one another." She said the words through gritted teeth, but she didn't look affected in the least.

"Wonderful." He started to leave but couldn't resist saying, as he left her behind, "Thanks for the drink."

Returning to the party, he never once glanced back. House was tempted to see what her reaction was, but he knew that, if he looked back at her, his words would lose their potency. And that was the last thing he wanted. Because just as it was with John, so too was House determined here to make sure Arianne didn't hurt his relationship with Cuddy.

He hadn't been lying when he'd said he didn't care if the other woman hated his girlfriend. He didn't. If they wanted to dislike one another, he wasn't going to put a stop to that – especially not when the potential for a sexy catfight seemed high. But he would never help anyone else hurt Cuddy. He would never put his relationship in jeopardy for a third party.

He certainly wasn't going to drag a five year old into the mess to accomplish that. House had lied, of course, when he'd called Rachel his child. She wasn't, and he didn't think she was; hell, even if he'd wanted to, Cuddy would have never allowed that to happen. But he could have never let on to Arianne that that was the case. No doubt she would have seized on that little bit of information and used it against Cuddy. And maybe _she_ deserved to have that used against her. But Rachel definitely didn't. She was young and already burdened by her fair share of problems; whatever Arianne's issues were with Cuddy, Rachel didn't need to be brought into that. Whether or not he'd succeeded in that though… well, that was anyone's guess.

Returning to the party, he tried to convince himself that an attempt was better than nothing. His eyes scanning the crowd for Cuddy, he thought that his efforts were more than what most would do in that situation. Certainly, expecting his girlfriend to be metaphorically blowing some jackass, he felt that he had done more than she herself had up to this point. But that didn't make him feel any better. So when he couldn't find Cuddy in the large group of people all around him, he was compelled to seek her out.

Of course, even though he'd seen the direction she'd gone it, she wasn't easy to find. Wells's large mansion made that task anything but simple. He entered a few empty rooms, took enough wrong turns to find one of what he assumed was many bathrooms. Course correcting himself, he managed to accidentally discover where they were keeping the kids as well. The door to the room was closed, but through it, he could hear Rachel threatening loudly to hit one of the other children with her. To be honest, House hoped she would so that they would have to leave. Then again, if they got kicked out, no doubt, Cuddy would bitch about it for the rest of the evening. But as long as he got to go home, he supposed he could handle that part.

Ignoring the dull thump coming from behind the door, he pressed onward. But it still took him another five minutes or so before he found Cuddy. She was in Wells's office with her back toward the open door.

Looking out one of the windows into the darkness, she must have seen his reflection in the glass. Before he'd even had a chance to close the door behind him, she turned to him and said honestly and almost desperately, "They won't notice if we leave now, right?"

"I'm pretty sure that's supposed to be my line," he told her, kicking the door shut behind him. "You're looking sexier by the second."

Her confession was nearly instantaneous. "John was here."

"Well, of course he was," House replied sarcastically, the response coming out of his mouth before he even had a chance to stop himself. "This is the day, apparently, for all of your past conquests to come back and haunt you. We get a Ouija board out, I'm sure Daddy's best friend –"

"You really need to let that one go eventually."

"Or maybe," he said ignoring her, "the creepy uncle with the wandering eye and –"

"_That_ never happened and if it _had_ –"

"Interesting, because that would explain your apparent proclivity for having sex with older men and –"

"John's not old," she interrupted like that was really the appropriate point to make just then.

"But he is in a position of power, which also –"

"Wow." Her voice was as patronizing as she could make it. "She must have really gotten to you if you're this stupid."

He didn't deny it. "I don't actually care that you slept with him or anyone else, but if I could, I don't know, _not_ meet every single one of them, that'd be nice. Especially since statistically I don't have enough years to meet every notch in your bedpost."

On another day, it wouldn't have upset her. Then again, on any other day, would he have felt compelled to say the things that he was? Cuddy understood the answer to that was probably not. Certainly he wouldn't have gotten to her then. But _today_ it did bother her. If only because there had been so many other issues for them to sort through, his remarks were impossible for her to take lightly.

Angry and frustrated, she snapped, "Well, I'll tell you what, House. Since I can't possibly imagine how upsetting this has been for you, you can drive down to the nearest street corner after the party and force _me_ to meet some of the women you slept with before me. Okay?"

"Oooh. _Burn_."

Her overreaction was made all the more apparent by his cool response. Though he was being sarcastic, there was no bite to the words. As if it wasn't even worth his time to get upset, he said the words he clearly felt she wanted to hear. And uttered with as little enthusiasm as possible, his reaction gave her pause – as he had intended it to.

His quiet reproach felt like she'd been doused with cold water. Her frustration lingered beneath the surface still, but his soft disapproval gave her enough pause to control herself.

"I'm sorry," she told him, though she didn't exactly feel that way.

With a shrug, he said, "Don't be. You're more than welcome to overreact. I'm curious to see where you're going to take this."

And he was, she thought. There was something about his demeanor… something almost _quiet_ about him that suggested he was handling her carefully. Tiptoeing around the edges, he was gingerly prodding her, lazily and sensitively seeing where this was headed.

"Nowhere," she said after a moment. Exhaling raggedly, she elaborated. "This isn't going anywhere." Admitting that felt like defeat, and it showed in her voice.

"Punched yourself out then?" As he calmly took a few steps towards her, she understood that she hadn't. This day had put her on edge, and at any moment, she knew she could lash out. She _would_. Her anger would have no purpose, would solve absolutely none of her problems. But that hardly mattered to her then.

So it wasn't surprising that she snapped back, "I didn't say that."

"Obviously not." She turned away from him in exasperation, but he didn't take the hint, placing his hands on her shoulders. Though she didn't break the embrace, she didn't relax into it either. "I'm not angry," he told her, as though that was supposed to make everything better.

Abruptly Cuddy turned around. "You're not angry, but you thought you would bring it up right now, because I don't have enough to –"

"I brought it up, because I thought you should know that I know what –"

"Oh of course you did," she said with a sneer. "She told you I slept with her husband, so that you would –"

"Get in a fight with you? Yeah, I _know_."

That just made it worse. Disgust lacing every tone, she pointed out, "And you decided to bring it up _anyway_."

"_Yeah_," he agreed, finally his own frustration mirroring her own. "Because you're not the only one unhappy that _Johnny Boy_," he said, batting his eyelashes as though he had a crush on the other man. "Keeps turning up."

Cuddy sighed. "Nothing happened."

"He kissed you."

She was taken aback by the comment. He had said all along that he wasn't upset, that he wasn't angry with her. All afternoon he had been supportive, but now he felt differently?

"You said –"

"I'm not mad at you," he reiterated in an even voice. "But he _kissed_ you, and that's not nothing."

She shook her head in irritation. "I meant nothing _else_ happened. He… he said he was going to back off."

"You believe him?"

The question wasn't a doubtful one. It could have been, easily so, but instead, he really wanted to know, it seemed, what she thought of John's words. That alone made her consider that perhaps House hadn't been lying; he wasn't angry with her but frustrated at her former lovers' inability to stay out of their lives.

If that were the case, she could sympathize. But the thing about that was: _she_ was in the exact same situation, just as fed up, just as disturbed by John's actions. House hadn't even been a witness to it the way she had, which made her feel as though _she_, more than he could ever hope, had a better grasp of just how horrifying today had been. And as such, rather than lash out at _her_, he should have been the one sympathizing with _her_.

Not the other way around.

However, pointing that out would get her nothing. She would sound whiny, and he would accuse her of being such. Then, after complaining that she was only thinking of herself, he would commit the same crime by ignoring all of _her_ pain.

_Again_.

There was the empty feeling of disappointment centered in her abdomen at the thought. A hunger no physical thing could satiate, it made her ache with longing, yen for him to see that this was not at all what she had wanted. On some level, she was sure he understood that. He knew, deep down inside, that she hadn't hoped any of this would occur. But playing to that piece of him could not involve anger on her part.

If she attacked, he would fight back. Her ire might give him pause, but inevitably, since he was suffering as well, he wouldn't be able to feel that bad for her then. He would, as she had, wonder why she was channeling all of her frustration in his direction. At that point, he would retaliate, try to hand her back her agitation, and then they would be back to square one; they would be just as irritable as they were now, maybe even more so. And they would get nowhere.

No, she thought, yelling definitely wasn't going to get her anywhere. The only option she had, it seemed, was to answer his question as honestly as possible, to make him feel sympathy by being honest, calm.

"I do," she said with a shrug eventually. "But it doesn't matter." The dejection she felt couldn't have been more apparent. "I mean... I guess it does, but Sanford Wells stood in front of us both and made it perfectly clear that I only have a job now because of John's donation."

"That's not the only reason."

"He _thinks_ that's the only reason. So no matter what John told me, he's going to believe that –"

"Then I hope he runs into Wells's wife before he leaves, because she seems to think you only have your job because of her husband's donation. And by donation, I mean semen."

She didn't think there was any point in denying it. It wasn't true; it was absolutely _not_ true. She'd spent one night with Sanford years ago, long _after_ she'd been made dean of medicine, _months_ after Arianne had wrongly accused them of sleeping together and filed for divorce. But if House didn't already know that, why even bother saying otherwise? Why try to convince him of something that should have been obvious?

"Right," she muttered under her breath.

Reaching out for her once more, House pulled her into a hug. She didn't feel like being held, not after hearing _that_. But he left no room for discussion, and she didn't have it in her to fight anyway. And regardless of what she wanted, she found herself in his arms, her face pressed into his suit coat.

The hug was awkward on her part. He wanted it too much, and she didn't want it at all, and his enthusiasm was at odds with her own. He sensed that; she thought he must have known. But he didn't let go of her, and part of her, a very small, tiny piece of her was grateful.

In her ear, he said quietly, "You know I don't believe that."

She grunted into his chest. "I should hope not."

"Because if you _did_ fuck for positions, you would have slept with me _years_ ago."

She couldn't help but look up then. Her chin digging into his skin, she pointed out, "I outrank you."

"Technically."

"_No –_"

"_Technically_," he insisted. "We both know how much you like being beneath me."

She raised an eyebrow. "You're turning this into a joke about sex?"

"If I didn't, I'd be left thinking about how you banged the chairman of the board –"

"There was no _banging_."

"Oh from what I hear, there _was_ and –"

"One time," she said calmly. "And it was hardly the sultry affair Arianne, I'm sure, made it out to be."

"Meaning you didn't orgasm?"

"Meaning I did; he didn't."

"Cause you were that bad in bed?" She could feel his chest puff out with pride. "I'm so glad I've taught you –"

"Because he got on his knees, and I didn't," she said smartly.

Instantly he wasn't so arrogant. His chest deflated, a sour expression contorting his features. And that disgust was evident in the way he spoke. "Well, now I've got that picture in my head. It's almost enough to cause permanent erectile dysfunction."

She felt no pity. "Why? Surely you knew I had sex with other men before –"

"Sure," he admitted. "Just like I know McDonalds' Chicken McNuggets are made from chicken eyeballs, ammonia, and Ronald McDonald sperm. Doesn't meant I want to think about it or get an eyeful of –"

"You're comparing my sex life to –"

"Laws, sausages, and the notches on your bed post," he explained matter of factly. "If I think about the events that led up to their existence, I get sick."

"I don't believe that."

"Because I haven't puked on you yet or –"

"You've always been obsessed with who I've dated," she pointed out. "If it bothered you, you would have never touched me."

"Repression and lots of antacids helped. But I can't exactly do that if your conquests keep popping back up for another squeeze and squirt with you."

She grimaced at his choice of words. "Ignoring that _wonderful_ euphemism –"

"I have others I can use if you'd prefer."

"No thank you. I got your point, and it's a stupid one."

"Is it?" he asked patronizingly.

"Actually, more than stupid, it's not true."

He repeated himself. "Is it?"

"You've had sex with me today."

"Yeah, _before_ –"

"And _after_."

His silence alone made it a triumph for her. But when he additionally bristled at her words and bumbled about for a retort, that just made victory all the more sweet.

"Well… I – that's _different_," he said in staccato consonants. "That was when there was _one_ ex for me to think about. I could handle that, especially since G.I. Joe isn't all that bad."

She smirked. "And Sanford Wells is?"

"No." The answer was curt, and she wasn't exactly sure she should believe him. "But the two of them together…." He shook his head in disgust. "The mental picture of _them_ with _you_ – all at once – one on each end –"

"That actually never happened."

"But I'm picturing it anyway, making it _very_ difficult to want you right about –"

"You expect me to believe that," she said doubtfully.

He looked down at her in surprise, as though it was given that she should. "I do."

But there was not a single cell in her body that he'd managed to convince. Sure, she could trust that he had a sick and twisted imagination; he wasn't lying about _that._ She could believe that he really did, at least briefly, picture the fairly vile things he was mentioning. Of course, if she were to truly consider the matter, it seemed highly likely that House imagining her in a threesome wasn't an idea that had just hit him. John and Sanford Wells were probably the last people House had thought of her having sex with, but she was sure in that filthy mind of his that he had had all sorts of fantasies about her being used, as he had put it, from each _end_. And the other players might have been unattractive by his standards, but if the act involved her, he wasn't totally turned off.

Because he was attracted to _her_.

And _that_ was what it came down to. Forgetting everything else, at the end of the day, he wanted _her_. Her body, _especially_ her body, her mind – all of it – he was attracted to. Over the years, she had found herself privy to glimpses to the depths of that need for her. She never knew how far that desire for her went within him, but every now and then, she'd caught a tiny snippet of emotion from him that made his love for her undeniable. If all this time together had taught her anything, it was that he loved her to a degree that no man had ever before or would after (should there be an after). That wasn't to say she thought he lacked a breaking point. She was sure he had one; it would _not_ be "You had sex with men before me" though.

She would never believe that. So unconvinced by his protestations, she actually thought that she could prove the opposite then. She could show that, no matter what his mind was picturing, he would still want her and act on it. Smirking, she decided to test her theory.

_Now_.

It was probably not the smartest thing to do – to attempt to seduce House while they were at a _business_ dinner. But after her conversation with John and House's conversation with Arianne Wells, it seemed like a pretty _safe_ action. At first glance, that didn't appear to be true. Cuddy knew though that both host and hostess (particularly the latter) would assume House was angry with her. After learning that Cuddy had slept with their boss? Any outsider would believe time away from the party meant House was fighting with her. In other words, no one would think that it was odd that they had disappeared. They wouldn't come searching for them, wanting to give the couple privacy. And if House came back with sweat dripping off his face and Cuddy's cheeks tinged red, conclusions would be made that they'd had a serious _fight_.

It would _not_ be assumed that they'd been having sex.

Which meant she was free to do whatever she wanted right now. Given that Sanford Wells had essentially told her she _had_ to keep working with John, the idea of making her own choices seemed particularly heady at that moment.

And so the decision to seduce House was an easy one, one without even the slightest hesitation on her part.

"I don't believe you," she said in a low voice.

"Well, you should."

Pulling away from him, she put a hand on her hip. The move could have been seen as challenging, and maybe it was even. But she knew that House would be too distracted by the sudden emphasis on her curves to care. Indeed, his gaze instantly shifting downward, it was easy to see that she'd already caught his attention. No matter what he said, he couldn't help but look.

"I'm pretty sure I shouldn't," she told him. "The way you're looking at me right now –"

"What way is that?" His focus immediately returned to her face. He'd been caught, but of course, he wasn't going to admit to it.

She didn't really answer the question. "You want me, House. Even now." She reconsidered her words, corrected herself – "_Especially_ now."

He had always been possessive of her. Even when he'd had no right to lay claim to her, he had done so anyway. Before either of them had recognized it, they had conquered the other, seized each other's heart and attention with an ironclad grip that refused to be weakened by prettier women or safer men. Together now, that fact hadn't changed. If anything it had become more true than ever. And she didn't think he was lying when he said that he was turned off by the fact that she'd had sex with John and Wells. But she would never believe House had been turned off _permanently. _Because the possibility of her having ever been someone else's was nothing if not a challenge. He might have been reluctant to see it that way, but that was _precisely_ what he thought deep down.

She would make him realize that.

But he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

"We both know that's not true," he told her. "And even if it were, let's not act like you're going to prove me wrong right now."

"You don't think I can?"

"I don't think you'll try."

Her lips pursed together as she tried to figure out how she should take the comment. Manipulation and challenge a standard currency between them, it would have been easy to believe he was baiting her. It was possible, maybe even likely, that he was trying to encourage her through doubt.

But if that were true, there would be some sign of it. His eyes would be lit with mischief; a smile would play at the corners of his mouth, and every now and then, he would gaze at her body with a longing she could almost feel. There would be _something_.

Right now, there wasn't. And because of that, she could only believe that he meant for his words to be taken at face value.

Still, that… didn't seem right to her. Knowing him, she thought he should have been challenging her. That he wasn't was confusing, and that feeling showed momentarily.

"You think –"

"No, I _know_," he interrupted, correcting his earlier assessment. "At your boss's home, in his office where he knows you are, with _that_ dress on?" He shook his head as though it were impossible for her to make a move on him at that moment.

"Dresses come off. Doors can be locked."

That didn't convince him. "You mentioned… wearing something underneath the dress."

His voice was shaky, raspy from his throat going dry. Even as he tried to prove his point, his interest in her, she thought, ruled him. The attraction to her was obvious, undeniable (though if asked, he would deny). Without even realizing it, he was undermining his own argument.

"If that's true, you're not going to want to ruin the surprise now," he finished firmly.

He was trying so hard, but it wasn't going to work. She had him beat. With a shrug, he retorted, "Who says I have to do that?"

"Oh I get it. You're going to _blow me_ in your _boss's_ office. At a dinner party. With several donors who live under the delusion that, if they give you enough money, you'll give their sausage a few dips in tuna town."

"I don't care what they think."

"You do too," he insisted. "And even if you didn't, you're definitely not above using it to your advantage."

"If I want to have _sex_ with my boyfriend, I don't –"

"All right. Fine." He dramatically threw his hands in the air and strolled over to the couch. No, she thought after a second – not strolled, _strutted_. Sitting on the sofa, he gestured towards his crotch. "Go ahead. Have at it. Let the dick sucking commence."

"I get what you're doing," she said, walking toward the door. As she locked it, she explained, "You insult me, make yourself as undesirable as possible, so I'll change my mind and walk out of here, so you can be right."

He didn't deny it. "Is it working?"

"Of course not. Don't be stupid."

"And _yet_ you're taking your sweet time getting over here."

"Because I was locking the door, you moron," she snapped. It never crossed her mind to rescind her invitation for sex; she wanted him, even if he were less than convinced. The idea in her mind, she wasn't going to back down now. But that didn't mean she wasn't annoyed as well.

When she turned back to face him, one of his arms was casually slung over the back of the couch; he looked so calm and casual that, as irritated as it made her, she really did reconsider her position then.

"You could at least pretend as though this is interesting to you," she complained, slowly walking towards him.

He didn't take her advice. "Why would I do that? I told you today has challenged my attraction to you."

"Oh _please_."

"I'm just saying: this is your dog and pony show, not mine." He cocked his head to the side in thought. "There are so many euphemisms I could make right now. It's amazing how –"

"You know what?" She shook her head and sat down on the couch. "You win."

Her patience had petered out surprisingly early. In her own estimation, she could have handled at least three or four more rounds with him. Nothing he'd been saying was particularly offensive, his quips dirtier than standard but without the hard edge she associated with him when he was actually agitated. He didn't mean half the things he said, and that should have been enough for her to let the remarks slide. That was what she'd hoped for anyway.

But here she was, completely and undeniably unable to play the game one second longer. And if that shocked her, it was nothing compared to the taken back look House was giving her.

"That's it?" he asked in mild surprise. "You're done?"

"I guess so," she said, laying her head down on his shoulder. Rationally the action seemed odd, to want to be close to him when he was driving her insane. But intuitively it felt right, _okay_ to seek comfort from him even as he was the one who had made her need the reassurance to begin with.

Instantly her mind rejected the thought. As though someone else had suggested, the words coming out of someone's mouth and not in her own head, she thought the idea was all wrong. He was bothering her, but he wasn't the problem. Nearly everything else in her life was, and he was getting to her, but it wasn't because he was being cruel. _House_ was fine; everything else was not.

Clearly though he was willing to make her reconsider that by pressing onward. As flippant as always, he muttered into her hair, "I'm disappointed in your stamina. I thought you could last a good six or seven –"

"My _stamina_ is fine. You're the one throwing in the towel based on two one night stands _decades_ old."

Reaching down, she took off her shoes so she could pull her legs onto the couch without scratching the sofa cushions. Her gaze was cast on the ground, obscured by the dark locks of hair falling around her face. And she guessed the image of her doing that seemed sad to him. Not in a pathetic sort of way, but the act must have made him think that _she_ was upset. Technically she supposed that was the truth. She was not particularly _happy_. But she hadn't looked away in sadness, hadn't been hoping to get an apology from him.

She got it anyway.

As she settled back against him, her feet tucked under her, he capitulated. "You know that's not true." Obviously she did. But saying that would make him revert to earlier behavior. Since she didn't like that idea, she stayed silent. And disturbed by her quiet, he said in a firm voice, "It's not true."

"And yet you're turning down sex."

His lips brushed by her ear. He whispered, but the passion and heated promise in his words were unmistakable. "I'm not interested in a quickie. You think that's what I want? With the way you're dressed?"

She blinked slowly but didn't look at him. His arm possessively wrapped around him, that was more than enough to stir some desire within her. And sure that, if she saw the heat in his gaze, she wouldn't be able to hold back, she kept her eyes off him. So she purposely avoided looking at him and instead, chose to throw his earlier words back in his face.

"That's not what you said –"

"Yeah, I was hoping you'd be desperate to prove me wrong, so that when we get home, you'd be _so_ eager to –"

"I _knew_ it."

"I didn't," he insisted. "I had no idea you were going to go into heat spontaneously." That surprise, however, didn't leave him disappointed or dismayed. "But that's okay," he admitted in a conversational tone. "Now that I know how much you want it… well, that just makes things far more interesting."

His hand slid up her body, his fingers reaching for her chin. His thumb brushing underneath her lower lip, he forced her to look at him then. Predictably, she felt that familiar pull, that _need_ for him. Her stomach fluttering with electricity, it took everything she had not to lean forward and kiss him right then and there.

And that was probably a good thing, because he said in a voice that left no room for discussion, "You're not getting laid now. I _could_ fuck you. But why would I want to when I can leave you thinking about all the things I'm going to do to you later?"

She refused to back down. "That's fine," she told him, bluffing. "If you want to wait to see what I have on underneath –"

"Unless you're smuggling a really hot _hooker_ under your dress, I gotta tell you: I don't care." Her disbelief must have shown, because he added, "I'm sure what you have on is pretty. But if you think, at this point, I'm even going to _glance_ at it before ripping it off you, you're out of your mind."

He had her beat. Mentally he prepared for her to fight him, but the fact was: he'd bested her thoroughly.

Not wanting to lose momentum, he pushed onward before she probably even had a chance to realize what had happened.

"Do you remember what you said to me yesterday?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "I said many things to you, but I –"

"In the shower. You said you'd leave my come on you all day if that was what I wanted. So everyone would know who you belonged to."

That _was_ what she'd said. The memory for him was foggy on account of the fact that she'd had one finger in his ass, another hand on his dick, and the need to come ruling his entire body. But she _had_ said something along those lines – he knew. And there was a good chance that she hadn't really meant it when she'd said it; trying to get him to watch Rachel _and_ get him off might have been her motivation for saying it at the time. He, however, had latched onto the idea and wasn't willing to put it to bed without seeing it through. She might have been facetious, but he wasn't going to assume that.

"Yeah," she agreed slowly, as though her recollection of the moment was just as vague as his. "I guess I said that." She sounded neither interested in nor against the idea.

He went with it. "So then here's what I want you to be aware of for the rest of the party," he told her in a deep voice, leaning in so that his lips were practically on hers. "I don't care who you _fucked_. When we get home, you're going to be _mine_," he snarled. "In every way imaginable. Including _that_ way."

She didn't say anything. But the almost imperceptible nod of her head let him know that she was more than game for anything he had in mind.

"That dress is going to look so good with a pearl necklace," he said promisingly.

The confusion crossing her face, she started to say, "I don't get it."

But by then he'd let go of her. Pulling away from her, he stood up slowly. "Just think about it," he told her calmly. She seemed reluctant then to say or do anything. She looked at him expectantly, like he was going to elaborate further, do something to keep this moment going.

However, House felt that he had said all that he needed to. For the rest of the evening, at any moment, when there was a slight lull in the conversation, she would think back to this discussion. She would recall his words and wonder what he had intended for her. And the less he explained, the more curious she would be, he thought. So he had no other choice than to end the conversation now.

"Come on," he said reaching for her. His hand clasping around her wrist, he pulled her up off the couch. "Time to get back to the party."

"Since when do you care about –"

"Since I have a good feeling that this is going to drive you nuts."

As she slipped her feet back into her heels, she smirked a little. "I know you _think_ that's how this is going to work, but –"

"It's not?" he asked doubtfully. "You expect me to believe that?"

By the smug look on her face, he could tell that she did. "I might think about it every once in a while," she admitted. "But I'm _built_ for delayed gratification. You, on the other hand…. You can't handle being bored. You hate being polite and making small conversation, which these parties are based on."

"And yet you invited me."

"Doesn't matter."

"It does."

"Not really."

"Fine," he said giving in. "But you're already dying for me to screw your brains out. You've proved as much. And it's going to be a _long_ time before you –"

"That's true. But it doesn't matter."

"Yes it does."

"House, the fact is: I can handle waiting until after the party. This is work for me, which means I have plenty of ways to keep my mind occupied. You don't have that, because nothing anyone tells you is going to interest you. So. Anything you just said is going to affect you ten times more than it will _me_."

"I don't think so."

"Well. I guess we'll see who's begging to leave by the end of the night." She nearly sauntered toward the door. He didn't even have time to consider whether or not she was right about any of it before she wrenched the door open. Turning to look at him once more, she said with a smile, "Here's a hint: it's going to be you."

"It might have been," he conceded. "But now that you've gone and made it a game, I can guarantee that it's not going to be me."

She didn't back down from the challenge. "We'll see."

"We will."

"Have fun at the party, dear."

He stuck his tongue out at her retreating form, but it didn't help. The second she was gone, he realized:

She was _right_.

She had so much ass to kiss and metaphorical dick to suck that her mind would only momentarily think about the _actual_ dick she'd be sucking later on. He wasn't wrong; that _would_ get to her; she would be extremely eager by the end of the night.

But he would be desperate long before then.

Because what the hell did he have to do this evening? Talk to donors?

Cuddy wasn't wrong to suggest that that wouldn't keep his mind occupied. She was wrong to think that that scenario would even possibly occur; _no one_ talked to him at work parties. Well okay, Cuddy and Wilson and maybe a team member or two engaged him, but they were the only ones who put up with him for more than a minute. Everyone else avoided him or only talked to him out of necessity. At no point did they stick around longer than required, entering casual conversation born out of mutual interests. If they spoke to him at all, it was about work. And when work was done, they were gone. Which left him with… what exactly?

Rachel? Right, he told himself bitterly, because what he'd really wanted to do today was dress up to play babysitter.

Leaving the office, House slowly made his way back toward the party. He had no idea why he was even bothering; the next couple hours would be just as miserable with company as it would be if he spent the entire time in Wells's office alone. There was absolutely no point opening himself up to the thirty seconds of small talk he'd be forced to suffer through if he rejoined the party.

As he passed the room where the kids were being held, he heard some of the children shrilly making plans for a game of hide and go seek. They were nominating Rachel to be the seeker, and mentally House wished them luck with that; the house was so big, and Rachel was so dumb that they'd be fortunate if they were ever found.

Then again, who was the idiot here? At least _she_ was having fun with her friends. What did he have?

The second he reentered the party, he had the answer to that question. Because it was at that moment that he saw Cuddy across the room; she was talking to some random donor, her hand on his forearm, and he understood where he'd get his fun from this evening. House suddenly knew: he couldn't lessen his own desire for the night to end. But he could absolutely torment _her_ with the details of his plans.

They couldn't leave now, couldn't get away with going home early even. And so there was only one way to proceed – make the evening as miserable for her as it already was for him.

Grabbing two glasses of champagne off a server's tray, he understood the game he was playing was dangerous. There were so many people standing around in conversation, so many who could hear him say all sorts of dirty things to her. And they weren't just random nobodies. Well, they _were_, but they were the nobodies they both worked with and for. The house staff who were wandering around the grounds with trays of hors d'oeuvres and an assortment of booze wouldn't care about anything he said. But everyone else? Yeah, that could create some trouble.

House was unconcerned. If there were potential for problems, that just meant he had to get creative. It didn't mean he had to abandon plans altogether.

Carefully, he carried two flutes of champagne by the stems. It was difficult balancing the glasses in one hand while managing a cane in the other. But he was patient with it, never going faster than necessary. That of course meant the donor Cuddy was talking to saw him coming from a mile away – and therefore had a chance to make a hasty retreat long before he was at her side. That didn't deter him.

"Champagne?" he asked, gently uttering the word nearly her shoulder. The act would go unnoticed by others but not Cuddy, who would recognize the intimacy in his closeness immediately.

She turned to him in surprise. "Thank you," she said coolly, taking the glass from his hand.

"I was thinking," he told her, closing the distance she'd somehow managed to put between them.

"Hmm?" The noise was muffled by the flute she was drinking from. Swallowing she asked, "What's that?"

"You were right. This is gonna be bad for me, so the only thing for me to do is make it just as bad for you."

She pulled the glass away from her mouth. "What does that mean, House?"

In a low voice, he propositioned her. "You wanna know the first thing I'm going to do to you when I get you home?"

She raised an eyebrow. A retort was quickly forming in her brain, but she never had a chance to say anything. Wells, who was about twenty feet, called for her, and since it was his party, that was all that mattered. Which was why House was surprised that she held up a finger as if to tell the other man to give her a moment.

"Don't keep your boyfriend waiting," House taunted.

She wasn't fazed by the comment. "You want to play this game?"

"If I didn't, it probably was a mistake to –"

"Fine." She finished her champagne before handing him the empty glass. "Bring it on. Just remember I can do _this_."

She started to walk away, and he thought her point was a stupid one. What was she saying? That she could leave whenever he tried to talk to her about this? But as she brushed past him, he realized that that wasn't her point at all. Because as she slipped past him, she let her hand slide between them. Her body blocked the action from prying eyes, but he could _feel_ her cupping his dick through his pants.

She squeezed him a few times, her palm tracing the length of him as best as she could given the circumstances.

It took all he had not to gasp, not to drop the glasses in his hand. Telling himself that he couldn't let anyone – _especially Cuddy_ – know that this was happening or getting to him, he tried to will himself not to respond. But his cock hardening in her hand, it was to no avail.

And then she let him go.

"If you're looking for something to do," she suggested, ignoring the soft whine he made. "Maybe you should go check on Rachel."

Victorious she left him at half-mast and with a vague desire to kill her.

It was one thing for him to mess with her; it was _okay_, because no one would ever know if she were turned on. The same could not be said for _him_, and while he didn't _care_ that someone might see the way his pants were beginning to tent, he also didn't care to feel like a thirteen-year-old boy with a rush of hormones and no outlet for it again.

Yes, he thought as he drank his own champagne, she was _definitely_ going to get it tonight – in every way he could think of. If it was dirty, kinky – hell, outright _deranged_ – he was going to put it on the list of things they needed to do, ways they needed to fuck this evening.

Of course, he couldn't even begin to name much less think about any of those sick proclivities he would thrust upon Cuddy tonight. The goal right now was to get his dick under control, and that surely wasn't going to happen if he thought about any of _that_.

In fact he thought then, Cuddy's suggestion, that he go check up on Rachel, was probably a good one. Nothing killed an erection like a kid.

He felt it said a lot about his current surroundings that that was the _bright spot_ of this party. But finishing his glass of champagne, he decided to make his way towards the children's room anyway.

As he set the empty flutes down though, he heard the sound of children. Their shrill laughs audible above the din of chatter and classical music being played, his attention instantly went to the kids. They were all bundled up in their winter coats and headed towards the front door.

Instinctively he glanced towards Cuddy. She would want to know, would want to stop Rachel from going outside. But Cuddy was deep in conversation, busy keeping Sanford Wells, another man, and a woman enthralled in whatever story she was telling. It would be difficult for House to get her attention. Even if could (and that would take some effort), he knew Cuddy wouldn't be happy that he'd interrupted her. She wouldn't _say_ anything, not then anyway. But days from now, weeks, maybe even a year from now, when it suited her to bring it up, she would remind him of the time he couldn't even stop Rachel from going outside.

Wanting to avoid that, House had no choice but to step towards the sea of children. He scanned the crowd, hoping that he could spot the kid in question. But Rachel didn't pop out of the swarm. Getting closer to them, he watched the children as they funneled out of the front door; he thought he might have missed her in the few seconds he'd been looking in Cuddy's direction. Still, there was no Rachel.

On the one hand, he supposed he was relieved. If she'd tried to go outside, he would have had to fight to keep her in, and whether he'd succeeded or not, Rachel and Cuddy would both be pissed at him. Rachel would be angry that he'd tried to keep her inside, and Cuddy would be annoyed that he hadn't superhumanly known Rachel was going to try to escape.

But, he thought, forcing himself to refocus his attention, none of that _had_ happened. It wasn't even a possibility.

She hadn't gone outside, hadn't as far as he could tell even tried. As such it was stupid for him to get bogged down in hypotheticals. To be irritated by something that hadn't even occurred was reaching a new height of stupidity. And wanting to avoid that, he wrenched his mind from those thoughts. Instead telling himself that the important thing to take from this was that Rachel wasn't here, he wondered where she _had_ gone.

Figuring that he should check the children's room, he made his way through that part of the Wells mansion once more. When he was about twenty feet down the hallway, he heard another adult behind him, telling the kids to stay inside, that they would eat soon. Assuming any of the kids listened to the woman, House knew the children would be flooding this area of the home once more quickly. It should have gone without saying that he didn't have the patience for that, so he picked up his pace and hurried towards the playroom.

When he got there, the mahogany door was closed. Additionally, he couldn't hear anything coming from the room... which couldn't have been a good sign. Rachel was either doing something wrong in that room, or she'd disappeared to another part of the house, which would also technically be wrong.

Reluctantly, House pushed the door open to see which. His eyes instantly scanned the room for something askew – crayon on the walls, marker on the sofa cushions, a broken lamp, _something_. But there was nothing, he thought.

And then that was when he _heard_ it.

Coming from the closet was her voice, her _threat_. Her teeth gritted, she barked, "If you guys don't let me out, I'm gonna bite you. And then I'm gonna spit your chunks out and I'm gonna –"

She stopped talking when he unlocked the door and wrenched it open. Out of habit, he took in her appearance. Her cheeks were red with anger, her mouth turned downward into a deep frown. There was some redness to her eyes, though he couldn't tell if she'd been crying. And her fists were also splotched crimson – with _blood_.

"That yours?" he asked pointing to her bloody hands. She shook her head, but seemingly surprised, she didn't say anything. "So… is there a dead body I need to be aware of?"

"No."

He was at a crossroads. He could make the kid tell him who she'd obviously gotten into a fight with… or he could wash her hands off so there was no proof of what happened. Of course, it was likely that Rachel's punching bag would run to its parents and complain, and in that case, Cuddy would absolutely believe the other child. In a way then, it didn't matter what he did. But House decided to go with his latter option anyway; Rachel would probably get in trouble no matter what, but at least if she were clean, she wouldn't seem quite so feral.

"Come on," he said calmly. "Let's wash you off."

Without a complaint, she scrambled out of the closet and followed him. In his estimation she seemed glad to be free, and he knew then, as if he hadn't before, that she hadn't entered the small space willingly. Maybe a couple minutes ago, there'd been the possibility that she'd accidentally locked herself in there. It had been an unlikely scenario, but he hadn't been quick to discount the idea. Now though, he knew she'd either been forced or tricked into the closet.

Still he had to ask the question. Though he didn't really want to do it – or care what her answer was – when they finally found a bathroom, he asked her, "What happened?"

"Nothing," she grumbled, holding her hands out for him to clean. She was too short to reach the stream of warm water, so he bent down and picked her up. One arm curled around her waist, he awkwardly washed the drying blood off of her.

Truth be told, while he didn't care what had occurred, he felt compelled to get an answer. That _Rachel_ was the most interesting thing about this party said it all, he believed.

As he reached for the soap with one hand, he repeated her words back to her. "Nothing?" He saw her guilty gaze reflected in the mirror. "You don't have a single scratch on you." Gently scrubbing along her knuckles, he could see that she had been uninjured in this fight. There were no cuts, no gashes to explain the blood. If she were bleeding elsewhere, instinct would force her to push her palms into the wound; she would not – as no one would – press her own knuckles into her injury. "So unless you have stigmata, which I doubt Mommy's going to believe, you were in a fight with someone."

Rachel looked down into the sink as though she were tempted to snake down the drain the same way the blood had. But she didn't admit to anything.

"Fine," he said calmly. "You don't want to tell me? That's fine." Giving her hands one final rinse, he then set her back down on the ground. "But I'm sure the kid you _hit_ isn't going to be as quiet."

He thought that threat would mean something. He thought that the possibility of getting in trouble would result in a confession. But when he turned off the faucet and then turned to look at her, he could see that she wasn't the least bit fearful of getting in trouble. And he knew then that he had missed something.

Quickly he broke the problem down. She'd hit another kid; they'd locked her in a closet. No matter how events had occurred, it was clear that there was no love lost between any of the children involved. But if you didn't like someone, the possibility of getting them in trouble should have been all the motivation you needed. It was one thing when you liked the person you were fighting; then maybe you didn't want to brag about the argument you'd just had. If you hated that person though... well, why wouldn't you tell the world? Especially if Rachel had thrown the first punch, why wasn't this other kid saying something? And if the other kid had been the instigator, why wasn't _Rachel_ saying anything?

Questions bloomed in his mind, synapses sprouting and straining for light hungrily, as though understanding were as much nourishment as anything else. Had Rachel threatened the other kids? He felt that that was probably a given, considering she had no problem hitting any of them and, even when beat, yelling at them through the closet that she would bite them. But in the end, she'd ended up in the closet, so the other children had more than proved that she wasn't as much of a threat as she'd hoped to be. So if they weren't complaining to their parents, maybe it was because... they knew they'd beaten her.

But then that didn't exactly explain _her_ behavior.

His mind toyed with the shame idea some more. Either her punching bags were too ashamed to confess what had happened or something _else_ had occurred to keep _her_ quiet. Looking at her though intently, he couldn't decipher anything – just that she would have to say something, _someone_ would have to speak, in order for him to get any answers.

"You're not going to tell me what happened?" he asked calmly.

"No."

"But I let you out of the closet."

"So," she said snottily.

"_So_... it's only fair. I saved you." The last sentence came out without much conviction. He wanted to truly believe it, but it was hard to make it sound like he'd performed a heroic deed when he'd done anything but that. He'd let her out of a closet, and that wasn't exactly the stuff of legends. And even if it were, he'd only done it to avoid running into trouble with Cuddy later on. Which meant that his act of heroism was more an act of cowardice than anything else, and while he tried to tell himself _Rachel_ didn't know that, it was still hard to sound convincing.

Nevertheless, he forced himself to keep talking. "Without me, you'd still be in there. So, really, it's only right that you tell me the truth."

"When the Prince rescues the Princess, he asks for a kiss not the truth," Rachel pointed out in a way that almost seemed... hostile.

"Yeah, well, as tempting as that is," he said sarcastically. "I'd rather not get arrested. So a version of events I can use to defend you to the _po po_ would be nice."

She hesitated, but when she spoke, it was clear he hadn't gotten through. "Nothing happened." He was about to press her once more for information, the thought of which was made all the more ridiculous by the fact that they were in the bathroom. But he didn't get a chance to say anything. Before he could, she said to him glumly, "I want Mommy."

It was the right card to play. Admittedly, that was rarely the wrong move to make, to ask for her mother when she was upset. In this particular scenario, House would have almost preferred the opportunity to grill her some more. But when she was asking for Cuddy, he couldn't deny her what she wanted.

"Fine."

As he guided her down the hallway though, he felt some form of reluctance flutter through his body. He didn't understand why until he'd successfully brought Rachel into the party. The little girl rushing toward her mother, he knew, just as Rachel had gotten too far for him to stop, why. Even before Rachel had wrapped her arms around her mother's bare leg, he anticipated the moment where Cuddy, busy with work, would notice... and be irritated.

And there was nothing he could do now to stop it.

Rachel hurried towards her mother - just narrowly missing a server carrying around a tray of canapés. From this distance, House couldn't hear her when she buried her face into Cuddy's leg. But he knew instinctively what she was saying. She was asking for her mother.

The look of surprise on Cuddy's face was impossible to miss, even though he was standing off to the side and could only see a small sliver of her features. He could just make out her flustered expression at being interrupted, couldn't hear but could see the hurried apology towards the man she was talking to. The other man, eager to give Cuddy her space, promptly stepped away, and House knew that, having been knee deep in her hustle, Cuddy wouldn't take to that kindly. An awkward pause in the other man's gait suggested that she was trying to keep him there, to tell him that this would only take a few seconds. But when the donor kept walking, it was clear Cuddy had failed.

And unprepared for Rachel's interruption, Cuddy similarly failed to handle her own child. The second they were free from the other man's presence, House could see Cuddy leaning over. Again, there was no way he could hear what was being said, but he knew. She was reminding Rachel not to interrupt; she was asking why Rachel wasn't playing with her friends, and before the kid could even answer, Cuddy was telling Rachel to go back to the playroom. From the way Rachel clenched her fists, it was clear she wasn't interested in going back without a fight. By the way Cuddy leaned down further, the stern look plain on her face, it was just as clear that she wasn't going to tolerate any whining right now.

Part of House expected Rachel to stomp her way back through the large room, down the hallway, and into the playroom she'd just come from. But that was why he wasn't surprised Cuddy looked up at that moment and sought out his gaze. Because just as he anticipated that Rachel would behave a certain way, so did _Cuddy_. And it was clear in their shared glance, which must have lasted a fraction of a second, that _he_ was going to be the one responsible for taking her back.

Inwardly he cringed at the idea. Outwardly, he calmly made his way to his family. Long before he got there, he could hear Rachel whining quietly, "I don't wanna."

"It's just for a little while longer."

"I'm hungry, and I don't want to wear my tights anymore, and –"

"House."

Rachel shut up when he came to stand next to her. He doubted she was embarrassed. She'd complained to and in front of him enough that it was normal, acceptable even in her mind to keep whining when he was around. He wished she weren't so comfortable, but he knew her silence then had more to do with the blood on her hands than any sense of pride she might have possessed.

Cuddy noticed none of this. She simply seemed relieved to see him. "Would you please take her back to –"

"I don't wanna go back."

"Rachel," she warned. Turning her attention back to him, she asked, "Will you?"

He couldn't say no. If he had, it wouldn't have mattered. Just as Rachel had to do what her mother wanted, so too was he at the whims of his girlfriend. These social events were meant to be parties, but for Cuddy they never were; they were business. Beneath the glossy veneer of frivolity – the neatly crafted jokes and planned stories she told everyone – there was a seriousness to Cuddy, a single-minded dedication to securing and maintaining relationships with the people in the room.

House understood that. She kissed ass to secure her job, to protect _his_ job. She put a smile on her face so that he wouldn't have to. And if she were doing that much for their future, then it seemed fair that he be her wingman, that he take care of secondary problems for her when they arose. It was appropriate for him to handle Rachel. It was.

That didn't necessarily make Rachel wrangling a desired activity on his part.

But what could he say?

"Yeah," he said after a second. Cuddy seemed relieved, so much so that she didn't notice the daggers Rachel was shooting in his direction.

"Thank you." Cuddy leaned forward as though she were going to kiss him on the cheek. But the second she started to move, she clearly thought better of it. Forcing herself to stay away from him, she turned her attention back to Rachel. "We're going to be eating soon. I promise." Rachel wasn't convinced. "But for now, you're going to go with House."

As a wingman, he must have been an incompetent one in Cuddy's mind. Practically shoving him in Rachel's face, Cuddy, it seemed, didn't trust him to know when to step in on his own. As she patted him on the back – like Rachel didn't know who "House" was – he fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"All right," Cuddy said quietly, in almost an apologetic manner. "I have to go talk to some people now. You're going to stay with House like a good girl for Mommy, right?"

She didn't stick around long enough for Rachel to answer. House couldn't fault her for that. The chances of Rachel behaving were, at this point, slim. And no matter what she said, the likelihood was that she wouldn't stick with him. Which was why he was almost surprised that she did, in fact, do as she was told.

He tried taking her back to the playroom. But the other kids, having been forced back inside, were in the room once more. And Rachel had no interest in being with _them_. That was what she'd said, like that too – "I don't want to play with _them_."

Under normal circumstances House would have been agitated by her sudden preference to follow him everywhere. He would have said that she didn't need to take her mother's instructions quite so literally... which she really did seem to be doing. But tonight he valued her company.

Well, that might have been overstating it. He didn't exactly _enjoy_ trying to keep a five year old occupied during what was officially the most boring Purim party ever. However, he was willing to tolerate her presence. Because every second she was with him was another opportunity to figure out what had happened.

Of course, she seemed so intent on _not_ talking that all those opportunities were wasted. After wandering around, they settled down on an opulent settee strategically placed along one of the long corridors. Both not so secretly waiting for this event to be over, they were practically counting down the minutes. They talked a little as they lounged. But no matter how often he tried to channel her complaining into a conversation about her fight, she managed to avoid answering his questions.

When she did it for what felt like the thousandth time, he decided to ask her just once more. After that, he thought, he would just leave it alone, leave her alone. If she didn't want to say anything, then… he would let her. The puzzle be damned; it just wasn't worth the frustration.

"You know," he told her in a casual voice. "I don't care that you got in a fight."

She didn't believe him. That much was obvious. Or… maybe she did, because her response was, "Still tell Mommy."

"No." And that was the truth. He wasn't going to tell Cuddy. "Your mother's got enough to deal with. I'm not gonna say anything to her."

The set in Rachel's shoulders seemed to ease a little at that. Maybe she didn't believe him completely, but just the idea that he would keep any confession to himself made her feel a tiny bit better.

Seeing that, he thought what he really needed to do was put her further at ease. If she knew she wasn't going to get in trouble, perhaps that would make her more open to talk.

"Like I said, I don't care that you got into a fight. I'd like to know why, but it's not going to bother me that you hit someone."

It had an effect. He could see it. But some vestige of reluctance remained. House wasn't sure what to do about that. If she was going to stubbornly cling to secrecy, he didn't think he'd be able to convince her to do otherwise.

Still, motivated by his increasing curiosity, he evaluated his methods thus far. He'd tried outright asking her; he'd vaguely threatened her with what would happen if Cuddy found out about the fight. He'd tried to be nice and understanding. So far, none of it had worked.

Examining how he'd behaved though, he could see an underlying variable found in each of the options he'd explored up to this point. He'd tried many approaches, but what he hadn't done was strive for... some sort of bond. He'd asked the question, attempted to make her feel safe. But in all of that, he'd remained a blank canvas, a cardboard cutout for her to talk to. He hadn't humanized himself, made it seem like he could relate to her.

Then again, he wasn't sure that he could. When he didn't know what had gone on, it was hard to say, "Oh, I know what you're going through, child. Let me make it all better." He supposed though that striking out in that direction couldn't hurt. What was the worse that could happen? She _didn't_ talk to him some more?

"I get it. Someone says something; you want to fight back. When I was seven," he told Rachel as he randomly picked a childhood fight that had stuck with him through the years. "I had a friend. _Doug_. He tried to tell me that no matter how high a cat fell, it would always land on its feet. I knew he was wrong, and we got in a big fight about it, and he punched me before we took his cat up to the water tower nearby and..."

House's voice trailed off as he noticed Rachel's eyes becoming wider and wider at his tale. Cuddy refused to get a pet, but Rachel still wanted one anyway, and clearly telling a five year old about that time he'd killed his friend's cat was… _not_ a good choice. So he left out the part where the cat had broken its back on one of the supports of the water tower and died when it hit the ground.

Yeah, he thought. This was an _awful_ story to tell.

"Well," House said eventually. "Then he punched me again."

But even though he hadn't uttered the words, Rachel seemed to have understood. "You killed a cat!"

"No," he lied. "No. No, I did not. Doug got mad cause he thought I lied to him. That's why he hit me. The cat it was fine. It ran home and… spent the rest of its days sleeping in the sunshine and drinking warm milk."

Rachel looked relieved, and as a result, he couldn't help but think that he did too.

"People fight," House said with a casual shrug. "Doesn't mean you're bad. Doesn't mean anything necessarily. But if something happened –"

"You're gonna tell Mommy." She pouted at the possibility.

But he thought she couldn't have been more wrong about that. Putting it simply, he denied it. "I don't care about telling your mother." She bristled next to him. "I _don't_. Whether she finds out or not… that's not a concern of mine right now." Then when he thought that maybe her defenses had been weakened, he trotted out his biggest lie of all. "I just… want to make sure you're okay."

He tried to tell himself that it wasn't like he didn't care. He just wasn't asking because he cared. That made it okay… not that he really felt that way when she _finally_ spilled.

"George said I was _fat_," she said with anger filling her tiny features. "And then Nevaeh said Mommy must hate me cause she's pretty and I'm not."

"You're going to listen to someone named _Nevaeh_?" House asked, as though the idea of doing that were completely idiotic. "That's not even a name."

"I didn't," Rachel explained. "I punched her. Then they says play hide and seek, and they say _I_ have to be the seeker and then they locked-ed me in the closet."

As she fell into sad silence, he realized suddenly what his problem had been the whole time. It had not been that he couldn't get Rachel to talk. It had been, was _going_ to be, that he had no idea how to fix her problem. He'd put himself in a position to help, but the truth was he had no clue what to do to make her feel better. He had no idea what to say.

_None._

And unfortunately for him, she was looking to him for some sort of comfort.

But it was at that second, when it seemed he was going to have to form some sort of response, that Cuddy stumbled upon them. She seemed, once again, a little flustered, like she'd been looking for them for a while.

"There you guys are," she said almost breathlessly.

Rachel was standing in seconds, instantly rushing towards her mother for a hug. Unlike before, this time Cuddy welcomed her daughter's embrace. "I've been trying to find you two to tell you that they're getting ready to serve dinner."

"Great," House muttered.

Smoothing Rachel's hair down, Cuddy said to him, "It's not that bad." And then to both of them she added, "I promise it'll be over soon, and then we can go home, all right?"

Her words did not provide him with any relief. By his account, they were nowhere near ready to leave. Dinner would be an affair, the long, drawn out kind that ate up so much of the evening that, by the time it was finished, you were hungry all over again. And considering how much time and effort had probably gone into getting this party in order, House felt that they would all be forced to sit through numerous toasts and ceremonies of a sort to lend regality to a festivity that was, in theory, all about getting drunk. Well, okay, there was more to Purim than that, but that would have been his chosen method of celebration. Chances of that happening here though were slim to none, and as a result, he wasn't mollified by Cuddy's promises.

Rachel, on the other hand, was too ignorant to agree with his assessment. _She_ seemed convinced that this night would in fact end soon. And because of that, she had no problem skipping in front of her mother as they all headed towards the dining room.

But Rachel's good mood abruptly ended the second Cuddy tried to guide her to the area where the children were eating.

"I wanna sit with you," Rachel whined.

Cuddy shook her head. "No, you're supposed to sit with your friends in the kitchen."

"No."

"Yes, I checked. You have a place card and everything. So –"

"I'm not gonna," Rachel said with a stamp of the foot.

"You don't have a choice."

House was not surprised that the little girl would look to him for support. After what she'd told him, he understood that he was supposed to be the one to step in. Of course, he wasn't "allowed" to tell Cuddy the truth about what had happened, but it was expected (according to a five year old's expectations anyway) that he say something.

But he wasn't good at coming up with an excuse on his feet like that. He wasn't an idiot, no, but he was so far out of his league here. _That_ was the problem. Because if the issue had been convincing Cuddy that they should have sex right then and there, he had dozens of reasons he could roll off the tip of his tongue. Why Rachel should be allowed to sit with them though? Yeah, he didn't have much material there.

He tried however.

"Does it matter?" he asked. "I don't think anyone's going to care that –"

"That's not the point," Cuddy said tersely.

"No," he replied with bitterness in his voice. She was right: that wasn't the point. But he knew what was. "The point is to have a tug of war match with your daughter over –"

"Rachel," she said, turning towards her daughter again. Her finger pointing in the direction of the overly designed kitchen where the children were being served, she ordered, "Go sit down and eat your dinner."

House could see his mistake then. He'd taunted his girlfriend, made this as much him versus her as it was Rachel versus Cuddy. And in doing so, he had inadvertently guaranteed that Cuddy would never see reason. She would stubbornly disagree with them both, because the alternative – that he was being the logical, relaxed person in the relationship – was unacceptable. For all of her words that she needed him to step up, _once again_ her actions suggested to him that she didn't want that at all.

As much as Rachel had wanted him to step in, Cuddy had wanted him to _stay out_, to let her handle this. And by not following her cues, he had ensured Rachel would be sitting at that table.

With the other kids who had called her fat and locked her in a closet.

And the thing that bothered him the most was _not_ that that was going to happen. Rachel was a tough kid who could handle a dinner with people she hated. If he'd thought otherwise, he would have absolutely broken his implicit promise to her, to keep that fight with the other children a secret. He would have told Cuddy even though he knew Rachel would hate him for it.

But in that case, doing that would have forced him to confront his greatest agitator at the moment: it didn't matter what he said or did. If he'd said something to Cuddy, she wouldn't believe him. Or she would, but she would dismiss what he was saying; she would continue with whatever choice she'd predetermined was the best one.

_That_ was what bothered him.

It wasn't a new problem, no. This wasn't the first time he'd felt that way this weekend, _today_ even. But each and every time he thought about it, it made him angry. When it came to Rachel, _Cuddy_ would find some way to punish him for his efforts or lack thereof. He could play any hand he wanted, and Cuddy would always find some reason as to why it wasn't the right one.

He didn't know if she was just too focused on work right now to deny herself this old habit of hers. He wanted to believe that it was just the situation they were in, but he feared that wasn't the truth.

No, he thought as he headed towards the dinner table with her. It was wrong to think that it was the party that created this behavior in her. There was no denying she was more unbearable tonight than usual, sure. But this wasn't an isolated event.

She was withholding in the same way she had for _years_.

And it didn't matter how many conversations they had, how many massages he gave her, how many instances of reaching out to Rachel there were. It would never be enough for Cuddy.

He almost laughed then. Earlier in the evening, he'd been wondering how he'd be able to make it through this party without ripping her clothes off and taking her right then and there. Now he knew how to control himself.

Now he worried he really would never want her again.

_To be continued_


	22. Chapter 22

Author's Notes: Thanks to jl1820, Huddyphoric, hughsoulingregsmind, harvesttime, solo1861, newsession, dmarchl, Jane Q. Doe, Josam, LapizSilkwood, red blood, Lana, grouchysnarky, Alex, HuddyGirl, Abby, Temo, EllieShelly, fantasiadvd, JessicaClackum, IHeartHouseCuddy, and ladyyuuki16 for taking the time to read and review. I'm so glad you still like my work and go out of your way to give me feedback. Thank you.

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Twenty-Two: On the Outside**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

She sensed a change in him immediately. Cool accusatory eyes met her gaze as Rachel stomped off, his way of saying, "You screwed _that_ up." The words never left his mouth, but Cuddy could see the temptation in his features, knew that, if they were in any other situation, he would say something.

For the life of her, she couldn't understand why he was upset.

True, these events, when he attended, always bred animosity, a bit of resentment and frustration for having been made to go. She'd expected that; that was why she'd purchased the lingerie she was currently wearing: because he would need something to look forward to. As childish as it seemed to need to bribe him for good behavior, it was necessary, and she had done it without complaint. But feeling the heat of his discontent, she was no longer sure that the crotchless, cupless wonder she was wearing would be enough for him.

She wasn't sure anything would be enough.

He did not take her hand when she held it out for him. He did not speak to her, barely even looked at her when they headed to the dining room. When she asked him what was wrong, he merely shrugged and continued on to the table.

They were seated next to each other, at the end, as far from the host and hostess as they could possibly be. But that unlike House's behavior did not surprise her; when he was with her, when it was known he was coming anyway, he was always placed on an end, as far from human contact as possible. And if he looked dismayed then, she knew it was because he didn't want to sit with _her_ and for no other reason.

As they took their seats, she leaned over to him. Her voice a whisper, she told him calmly, "Whatever your problem is –"

"I don't have a problem."

She rolled her eyes and sat back in her chair. Under no circumstances had she been convinced; the surly quality to his voice made it obvious if not understandable that there was absolutely something wrong. But in those few words, it had also become clear that he had no intention of telling her, that he planned to sit there silently – like a _child _would – for the rest of the evening.

Cuddy wouldn't lie; it bothered her. It did. Something had happened, something she would have to address sooner or later. And the fact that he didn't even want to talk about it made her all the more concerned. Because when he didn't talk, it meant that his problem was greater than a simple apology, bigger than thirty seconds of consolation could solve. He wasn't saying anything now, affording her that much dignity to keep their personal issues limited to their home. But in a way, that just made it even worse.

This wasn't about John Kelley or Sanford Wells. He'd had no problem discussing her love life earlier. Sometimes House liked to get offended by something after the fact, surprise her with newfound anger. But that wasn't the case here. She could tell. He would have said something if it were about John or Sanford; given that one of the men was twenty feet from him, he would have _done_ something.

Instead House was quiet, eerily so. He sipped from his wine, placed his napkin on his lap all without a word, without even a glance in her direction. But the undercurrent of those actions was one of disapproval, one of _disgust_. She could _feel_ it.

And that was truly saying something, considering it was hard to sense much of anything other than the glowing hatred radiating from Arianne Wells's direction. Her husband was currently offering a toast, the same toast he always gave about perseverance in the lifeblood of Jews, in the blood of those sitting at the table with him. But oblivious to her husband's words, Arianne was giving Cuddy a different message altogether with that glare of hers.

Then again, Cuddy guessed the word, blood, wasn't entirely absent from this unspoken conversation either.

She refused to let it bother her though. Arianne had assumed the worst in her for years, more than a decade even, and if Cuddy had let that get to her every time an accusation, said or otherwise, was made, she would have never been able to do anything else. Out of necessity, she'd developed a thick skin, distanced herself from her association with Wells – so much so that not even House had been able to predict a past between them. Required, Cuddy had forged ahead and would continue to do so.

But she'd just thought that when Sanford Wells's speech took an unexpected turn. He was at the part where he talked about his own ancestry, how they had been forced from Spain, left Morocco decades after, and settled in the United Kingdom without knowing anyone. It was, he said, as he always did, a testament to his family, living up to that legacy, that he should enter a profession that was not always welcoming to black men, especially black men in positions of power. And he was at that moment where he then turned the toast to the successes of his fellow diners when he changed course.

He started talking about his wife, something he never did. Darkly Cuddy thought he avoided mentioning his spouse, because every year, said spouse _changed_. Nevertheless she was intrigued by the shift in pattern, and so she was fully focused on his speech when he said it.

"This year," he explained in a thoughtful manner. "I think I am even more attuned to the legacy my family, the Jewish people, have created – _died_ for – for me. As I contemplate the examples that were set for us, I can only hope that Arianne and I will be able to provide the same for our own child who will be born…."

His voice trailed off though only in Cuddy's head. She could see his lips still moving, could, in a vague way, hear his continued speaking buzzing in the back of her mind like a fluorescent light bulb in dire need of changing before it blew. The specifics of what he said escaped her; the specifics did not matter. Her gaze trained on Wells and his wife, it was easy to see then – why hadn't she seen it before? – Arianne was pregnant. She glowed; they both did, smiled knowingly at one another as though a secret lingered between them, something only the two of them knew.

There was no secret, of course. The truth had been revealed, and everyone now knew that they were having a baby. But looking at the happy couple, Cuddy felt a sense of exclusion in the moment nonetheless.

Rationally she knew that was how it should be. This pregnancy wasn't happening to her, wasn't occurring in her family. She was looking in on a private moment between Wells and Arianne, and it was only right for her to feel like an outsider at the dinner table.

But was that what was really happening? Cuddy thought the answer was no. Maybe in some small part, she was reacting to the subtle display of intimacy in front of her. The fact of the matter though was that that dynamic barely penetrated Cuddy's daze. She could recognize it in a reasoned way, but she didn't feel it. She didn't even really think it.

Really, there was only one thought flitting through her mind, one fact that seemed to plague her, weigh her down as Sanford finished his toast. Arianne was _pregnant_. This woman who had made so many awful assumptions about her, the person who lacked so much decency, who didn't have a maternal bone within her was _pregnant._

And the silent refrain that came with that, though Cuddy tried her best not to think it, was: _And she was not_.

She had never been, not really, the voice thought, pushing through every defense she possessed. Pregnancy had been a state she'd briefly experienced, a small taste of something she would never fully enjoy. In spite of all her wishes, there was a longing that came with the thought. The desire for… not a different path; she couldn't imagine life without her daughter, without things being as they were. She couldn't picture herself with two children, with House being the biological father of him or her – or with someone _else_ being the father.

As much as part of her longed to have had that experience, the events that would have had to take place were ones she wasn't interested in. She would have liked to have been pregnant, but... she didn't.

She didn't.

Thinking that and then settling into the salad course made her feel ridiculous. But what other choices did she have? Her mind traitorously took her there, forced her to consider the "what if" she generally refused to let herself ponder. Her job forced her stay where she was, to hold her glass high during the toast and act like she was both happy and unaffected by this announcement.

She _was_ unaffected, she told herself. No matter how nice it would have been to be inducted into that part of motherhood, to know what it felt like to have your child grow and move within you... it wasn't something she needed to chase. It wasn't something she needed to be complete. There was the slight tinge of betrayal, that the world should give a viper like Arianne a child, but if Cuddy felt sick then, it was because she knew her own path to motherhood had been – _was_ – just as meaningful. And if she felt awful, it was because these thoughts made it seem like she needed to be convinced of her love for Rachel and that just wasn't the case.

She loved Rachel, as fully and indescribably and terribly as she would have if she had ever successfully been pregnant. Of that Cuddy had no doubts.

But when Rachel slipped into the dining room, a sour expression on her face, Cuddy thought that maybe her daughter did have some doubts of her own. Because as Rachel carefully made her way to her, Cuddy could see the hatred, the dissatisfaction, in her daughter's eyes. It wasn't genuine in any way. To be sure, Rachel probably thought at that moment that she really did hate her mother, really did have a reason to be irate. Being sent to eat with her friends for some inexplicable reason was enough to make her feel as though her mother were against her. But it was the kind of momentary irritation that only a child could have… although Cuddy was tempted to reconsider that with every glance she made in House's direction.

And at least Rachel had enough love for her to head straight for her and bury her face in her mother's lap. She had enough forgiveness for some affection whereas House could barely look at her. Who was really being less mature in this scenario, she thought dryly.

Shifting away from the table, Cuddy ignored him. Instead she leaned down a little so that she could hear Rachel over the multiple conversations that had started to take place around them.

"What's wrong, baby?"

Rachel lifted her face off of Cuddy's thighs. "I wanna go home," she said practically on the verge of tears.

For the life of her, Cuddy couldn't understand why. This might have been a boring event for a child. Okay, it _was_ an awful way for a five year old to spend her evening. But it wasn't worth crying over, and if Rachel were about to do so, the only reasonable cause for that was she thought throwing a fit would get her home sooner.

What Rachel didn't realize was that there was absolutely no chance of that plan succeeding.

Nevertheless, Cuddy tried to be sympathetic. These parties were never fun, and even if she thought differently, antagonism wasn't going to work here. Rachel needed sympathy.

"I know," Cuddy said gently. "Just a little while longer, all right?"

"No. I want to go home now." Rachel was firm, but she was still quiet, thankfully. The only attraction she seemed to attract at that point was House's.

"You need to eat your dinner," Cuddy told her.

"I did."

"Really?" she asked doubtfully. "So if I go check, your plate's going to be empty?"

Rachel nodded her head. It wasn't a lie. She hadn't wanted to sit with stinky Nevaeh and stupid, poopy pants George and Tyler to eat dinner. By the time she'd been forced to, one of the other kids, _Dustin_, had decided to play a prank on her and feed her dinner to one of the dogs. At least that was what they said – they'd fed her food to the dogs (although Rachel didn't think there were any dogs here), because she was so fat she didn't need to eat.

They was wrong. She _did_ need to eat cause of her blood sugar. But they were so dumb they would never get that, and if she asked for more food, they would just tease her even more. And then Mommy would make her clean her plate, and they would oink like they was pigs, because she was fat, or they would moo cause she was a cow, and asking for a new dinner just wasn't worth it.

As soon as they went home, she would say something, so she wouldn't get sick. But she wouldn't say a peep until then. Nobody was gonna make fun of her anymore. Not tonight anyway. And it was easy to convince Mommy, because the plate was technically empty, so it wasn't a lie to say that it was.

"All right," Cuddy said after a moment. "Can you be quiet while…."

The question went unfinished. The second House leaned down and picked Rachel up, there was no point in saying anything else. He'd made the decision for all of them, leaving Cuddy nowhere to go with her words. Whether Rachel planned on being quiet or not, she was in House's lap, _snuggled_ into the lapels of his suit; there was no incentive to behave now, because she'd already gotten what she wanted.

Frustrated Cuddy chose to ignore them both. This was just what he liked to do, she told herself. He had no idea how to reach out to Rachel on his own, no clue how to bond with her, so he spoiled her. He gave her whatever she wanted without complaint or hesitation, pitted himself against Cuddy so that he looked good by comparison. He couldn't help himself.

No matter how many times she tried to tell him he didn't need to do that, that Rachel would eventually like him whether he spoiled her or not, he refused to believe that. Granted, listening had never been his strong suit. Neither had change. And for that very reason, Cuddy tried to be as patient as she could be.

She was losing patience.

But she had already said something once today. Reiterate the point too often, and he would stop even trying to pay attention. Her insistence would lead to accusations of nagging, and then he would purposely do whatever he wanted to annoy her further. He couldn't help himself there either. So Cuddy chose once more to bite her tongue, to ignore the problem that she saw staring at her in the face.

In some ways, that was almost easy. Rachel had gotten what she'd wanted, and she was quiet as a result. House spent the rest of the evening watching her, which meant that Cuddy didn't have to worry about either of them getting into trouble. And that allowed her to focus on the job she had to do – wooing donors with an ease she didn't feel in her marrow.

On the surface, everything was going fine. They laughed at her jokes, lapped up the little tidbits of administrative life that she shared with them. She returned the behavior in kind – pretended to be amused at the stories they told, faked enjoying their senses of humor. But as the party progressed, the hours ticked by ever so slowly, Cuddy found herself devoid of any real amusement.

The fact that there was always a long stretch between dinner and dessert and then the end of the party only made it worse; the feeling that she would have to keep the façade up for the rest of the night made her that more desperate for the evening to end.

Impatience was not something she meant to dabble in. She'd set herself up for a long evening. Before the party, she had told herself that she would have to overcome a lot, meet several people's high expectations for her before she could even think about leaving. Though this was the last thing she'd wanted to do, it was necessary at this point. Once the D.E.A. started to investigate the hospital thoroughly, she needed it to already be perfectly clear that _no one_ could do the job she did on a daily basis.

Perhaps sensing she had reached that point – or gotten as close to it as she ever would – she felt herself itching to leave. Again, she'd wanted to go longer, but thanks to John and Arianne and House and _everything else_, Cuddy knew she had reached her limit. And now all she wanted to do was go home, so that she could strip herself of the veneer that suggested to the world that everything was okay.

_Nothing _was okay.

It hadn't been all day, of course. But the more she tried to pretend like she had everything under control, the more obvious it was becoming that she didn't. John had kissed her, and even if House forgave her for that, she still had to deal with the memory of it. And then there was Arianne and her pregnancy and the hospital's current troubles and the fact that Rachel and House both seemed at times angry with her for reasons Cuddy didn't understand and… their problems seemed to be never ending.

But instead of being home with her _family, _protecting _them_, she was _here_. At first relying on work had been instinctual. Now it just felt like she was avoiding her own life and the problems teeming within it. Each conversation more forced than the last, she made it another hour, a full seventy-five minutes after dinner concluded to be precise, before she begged off.

Wells was understanding thankfully. She could see his desire to point out that, if there were ever a time to stick the party out, that time was now. Although he said he understood, that he was sad she had to go, what he really wanted to say was, "Are you sure that's the right choice to make?"

It was an unspoken question created from a need to protect. Over the years, their relationship had cooled to the point where they appeared to be mere acquaintances. But every now and then, a lingering feeling or two would bubble to the surface. If right now was one of those times, she thought it was because she had succeeded in her plan to appear competent. Because if he'd believed she weren't an asset to the hospital, he would have let her go without hesitation. At the moment though, he was subtly trying to keep her there. And if he let her leave at all, it wasn't because he thought she was a hindrance, but because she told him Rachel had school in the morning.

Apparently newfound fatherhood made him more sympathetic to her responsibilities as a mother. For that reason alone, Cuddy thought Arianne becoming pregnant was a good development. But she kept that to herself, not interested in speaking to the other women, much less give her an opportunity to insult her.

Finding House instead, Cuddy was surprised to see Rachel asleep on his lap. The pair were sitting on the same chaise they had been lounging on earlier, but this time, Rachel was curled into him.

For a brief second, Cuddy paused at the sight. She wanted them to be close; she had fought for that. And it was nice to see them like this.

But there was also a slight pang that came with seeing them together as they were. The closer they became, the less reliant Rachel became on Cuddy herself. And maybe it was ugly to want her baby to stay _her_ baby, but sometimes Cuddy felt sick at the idea of sharing her daughter, letting her become closer to and dependent on someone else.

She didn't think she did a good job of hiding it then.

Certainly it would explain why, when she asked if he'd given Rachel her insulin, he was quick to snap.

"No. I didn't," he said in a way that made it obviously a lie. "I thought it'd just be _fun_ to see what happened if I let her –"

"We're leaving," she told him, hoping that that news would ease some of his agitation.

It did, but then it also seemed to leave him confused. An eyebrow cocked, he asked, "Because of what I said?"

"Because it's late and I want to go home." Leaning down, she began to slowly pull Rachel into her arms. Cuddy tried to be as gentle as she could be, so that Rachel wouldn't wake up. But the shifting caused by Cuddy picking her up roused Rachel enough so that she whined a little. "It's okay," Cuddy told her, holding her close. Her daughter's face burying in her shoulder, she said in a soothing voice, "Mama's got you."

House watched the scene impassively, but he didn't stand up to leave. Wanting to go and being _allowed_ to go were two different things in Cuddy's mind. He wasn't going to get up until he knew he was free and clear to escape.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Don't worry. I already said goodbye for you."

"Okay." He tried to act like that wasn't a concern of his. Having her acknowledge it and so readily made him feel like a child being consoled, made him feel shamefully predictable. He reached for his cane but tried not to seem too impressed by her words.

The act wasn't particularly convincing, he thought, because Cuddy seemed to be even more irritated than she had been.

"I'm going to get our coats. When you're finished playing games, you can join us." She turned away and started to walk off.

Then he didn't hesitate to join her. She'd correctly deduced his motives, what he was doing. There was no point in pretending otherwise. Even though he didn't like being exposed, fighting that fact would just make it all the more obvious. Having been caught, he could really only admit defeat and move on; denying it would merely prolong his presence at this party.

Sighing he stood up. His thigh ached as he took long strides to work the tension out of his muscles. Rachel had fallen asleep at least a half hour ago, and he'd been trapped on the small sofa by her body and the knowledge that he'd have to deal with the other guests if he tried to get up. Now he was stiff, his gait reflective of that.

It didn't help that he knew he was poised for a fight. His entire body tense with anticipation, he found it impossible to ease the soreness in his leg. He tried, but every moment seemed to remind him of the argument they were going to have.

It didn't matter that they worked together to get Rachel into her coat or that he then helped Cuddy down the icy driveway so she wouldn't fall with the kid in her arms. None of that made a difference.

Not for him.

Maybe Cuddy, under the delusion that he was agitated from the party, thought this brief reprieve from fighting meant something. But he knew better, because he knew that all of _this_ was precisely the problem. Every day they managed to have moments like this, instances where they came together to care for Rachel. And every day those times went ignored or unappreciated by Cuddy.

If she weren't going to place any meaning in those moments, why should he do any different?

Well, he wasn't going to. If nothing they did together made her more trusting, then he wasn't going to let those same events quell his anger. Cuddy was oblivious, of course. He knew she wasn't so dense as to be completely unaware of his mood. But every time their eyes met, it was impossible to miss the hope in her gaze; it was easy to see that, in spite of everything, she thought nothing bad would come of it. They would go home and put Rachel to bed and make love and call it a night as though everything were just fine. He didn't bother suggesting she was wrong about that.

She would know the truth soon enough.

When they got home, Cuddy lifted Rachel out of her car seat. House held the garage door open for them silently. And when Cuddy gave him a soft smile and told him, "I'll just get her changed and in bed," he didn't fight her on it. He let her do precisely that.

It took her a good ten minutes before she reappeared. There was toothpaste smeared along part of her dress, and she looked disheveled, like a sleepy Rachel hadn't been cooperative in getting ready for bed. In all honesty House had no trouble believing the kid had been difficult. She'd been that way since dinner had ended, cranky and upset. She'd fought him hard when he'd gone to give her her insulin, though that probably had more to do with the fact that he wanted to inject it into her stomach than anything else; of all the locations they could use for insulin dosage, her belly was the site Rachel hated the most. She was afraid the needle would make a hole in her stomach or something along those lines (House never really listened). But her arms at the moment weren't a suitable location, so it had been the best choice at the time. And since then, she'd been agitated. If Cuddy had had trouble, House wasn't surprised. He remained unsympathetic nonetheless.

At that point though Cuddy must have sensed something wasn't right with him. Within seconds of shutting their bedroom door, she looked at him as though something were wrong.

"Why are you in your pajamas?" she asked confusion mingling with disbelief in the sound.

His response was flat. "I'm getting ready for bed."

He didn't look at her as he headed to the bathroom. Chances were, when they were finished fighting, she'd kick him out. He wanted to be prepared to go when it was necessary.

As he brushed his teeth, she crept into the bathroom. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, she asked as if to entice him, "Did you forget?"

He spit into the sink. "That you're wearing something underneath your dress? No. I didn't forget."

"Good." The self-satisfied smirk practically gleamed in the mirror. Her warm hand on his back, pressed into his shoulder blades, she said, "You have no idea how hard it was to find –"

"I don't care."

All bravado disappeared the instant he said it. She'd been feeling good, just the right amount of wine and victory in her to make her loose and interested. She'd been annoyed with House earlier, but now they were home, and that made feel a million times better. Getting out of the party and Rachel to bed had tamped that emotion down, but once free of those constraints, Cuddy had been eager for House to rip off her dress and see what she had been, rather uncomfortably, saving for him all evening long. For a while there, it had seemed he was just as keen as she was.

Now… he said he didn't care?

She was put off by the change in demeanor. Or perhaps that was the wrong way to put it, because he'd been sending signals for hours now that he wasn't happy. He'd made that much plenty clear. But she guessed she'd thought that the second they were home, the mere mention of lingerie would turn his mind to sex and all would be forgiven. Looking back on it, she decided that maybe she had been oversimplifying, thinking it would be that easy. Still, she wasn't about to give up. If he wanted to play hard to get, she was game.

Calmly she got closer. Leaning back against the sink, she stood next to him. He was hunched over the Formica, hand cupped underneath the stream of running water so he could rinse his mouth. But she knew that, despite that he was aware of what she was doing, he was closely paying attention to her.

"I know you said you didn't care what I wore, because you planned on –"

"I changed my mind," he said with a shrug.

She wasn't sure how to take that comment. "You mean you've –"

"I mean," he told her in a slow, patronizing voice that made her burn with irritation. Slapping the faucet off, he looked at her. She was surprised to see the potent anger still in his gaze, as he finished, "I don't want to have sex with you."

There was a conviction to the words that surprised her. Although she'd expected reluctance from him, she hadn't anticipated such vehemence from him as well.

The shock must have shown, because he was quick to needle her further.

"You don't even know why I'm pissed, do you?"

The cruelty contained in the snide question immediately put her on the defense. Whatever patience she might have had was gone now. She was no longer interested in kindness or understanding; she'd set herself up for some poor behavior on his part, but this was beyond what she felt like handling today.

"Well go ahead," she snapped back, gesturing as though she were giving him the floor. "Please feel free to tell me what's wrong."

"The fact that you don't already know –"

"Yes, how dare I be unaware of every mental –"

"If you want to make this about how crazy I am, by all means, do that," he said with a shrug. "If you think doing that is going to help the situation, I don't know what to tell you. It's just not."

She was at a crossroads. Did she fight him for being ridiculous or did she employ sympathy to resolve the problem? Right now it was hard to see the appeal of the latter; they were both undeniably poised for an argument that seemed to have come from nowhere. Chalking it up to the stress of the weekend, Cuddy supposed that it made sense and that, therefore, it was pointless to address his anger as though it were anything more than a momentary annoyance.

But… she hesitated to follow through on that knowledge. Maybe it was just a temporary fit he was having. If she treated it that way though, what were the chances that his irritation would stay fleeting then? If she did that, what was there to stop him from becoming even more agitated?

No, she thought after a small amount of contemplation. She couldn't act as though this were a trivial matter; she believed it was, but she couldn't let on that that was how she felt. Doing that could easily set off a chain reaction that left them both angry for days. That was not what she wanted.

"You're right," she admitted, though it killed her to have to say the words. "I just don't understand what this is about." She paused for a second in the hopes that saying those things would be enough for him. Clearly it wasn't going to be. "If this is about John or –"

"It's not," he said with a shrug. "I don't care who you slept with. I care that I have to hear about it decades after the fact, but I don't even really care about that."

She wanted to demand what the problem _was_ then but thought better of it. If he hadn't come out with it already, that meant he was either faking it or purposely withholding the truth. The former seemed more likely, but again, she knew she couldn't react from that point of view without risking making things worse. So assuming he was choosing to keep the reason to himself, she had to think that demands wouldn't work. She would need to work it out for herself.

Obviously it was safe to assume the problem had originated at the party. They'd left the house on reasonably good terms, so the issue (if there was one) had to have begun in the Wells's mansion. John would have been a rational choice for root of the problem. But in all honesty, House had barely even registered that John had been in the same home. Arianne's tales of elicit affairs that only really existed in her mind had kept House distracted. Then again, House hadn't been all that upset about that either. He hadn't been _pleased_, but he'd backed off when she'd needed him to. If he were really that pissed off about it, he wouldn't have stopped then. He would have stepped back, changed tactics, but he wouldn't have let the matter go without the resolution he wanted. If that wasn't the problem though… then what was it?

What else had happened?

He patiently stood there, watched her intently as she tried to answer that question. It was obvious that he wanted her to figure it out on her own, as though this were a lesson she needed to learn without his aid. His arrogance palpable, it took all of her effort to focus on the matter at hand.

And yet try as she might, she still couldn't think of anything. He'd definitely been pissed after dinner. But what had occurred between their conversation in Wells's office and dinner? Rachel had found him, but she'd been a good girl all night long. There'd been strained moments here and there, yes. However, Cuddy didn't think she could ask for perfection from her five year old, and even if she could, surely, _House_ wouldn't have a problem sympathizing with wanting to be at home instead of at a party.

So then…

What was it?

She was about to go over the minute details of the evening, because nothing was sticking out to her and she felt that was the only way she might come up with something. But House had become fed up with the waiting she required. She could see it, and so she wasn't surprised when he couldn't stand it any longer.

"All right, let me ask you this: what did you think about Wells's announcement?" If the question sounded conversational, it was intentional. For that reason, Cuddy didn't let her guard down.

"What did I think?" Her head shook a little as she tried to understand why he was asking about _that_. "I don't – why does it matter what I thought?"

"Because I'm asking."

She didn't know how to answer. Even if she knew what words to say (and she didn't), did she really want to tell him the truth? Under these circumstances? So he could use it against her in whatever manner he felt was appropriate? And he _would_ use her words as a weapon. She was beginning to see that his anger, while unjustified, was very much _real_, and he wasn't bringing up Arianne's pregnancy for the sake of conversation.

So Cuddy lied. "I was happy for her."

"No, you weren't," he said knowingly.

"Then why ask?" Frustration infused in every syllable, it was clear, she hoped, that she was tired of the game he was playing. Truly, if he wanted to be pissed off at her, at this point, he owed it to her to just be _mad_.

"I was curious to see if you would admit it."

"Admit _what_?"

"That you were jealous," he offered simply. "That seeing someone else, someone you don't like, with child made you think about –"

"And what if it did?" she interrupted. "What does it matter that I thought about what it _might_ have been like to be pregnant? To have another child? What's wrong with considering _that_?"

He was not sure that was the admittance he'd been looking for. Reexamining his game plan, he could see that he had given her a wide birth to take the conversation wherever she'd wanted. And thinking about it now, he guessed he should have chosen a way to bring up the _kid_ topic that didn't confuse her little mind.

Then again, she was standing there in front of him saying that she'd been considering what it would be like to be pregnant; she'd been thinking about another baby. She'd said as much yesterday, that she'd thought about it before. But she'd managed to convince him then that she hadn't wanted to act on those ideas. Now… he wasn't as willing to believe that. And though he definitely hadn't brought up Arianne Wells's pregnancy to get _this_ particular reaction from Cuddy, he couldn't ignore what she'd said either.

This was not a distraction he wanted to deal with at the moment, he thought. But it had to be addressed. And he knew just how.

Looking at her, he could tell that she wouldn't admit to wanting another baby. She was too defensive, overtly and rightfully suspicious of his words and the intentions behind them. Talking about it would get them nowhere. When she sensed where he was trying to go, she would urgently fight to push them in another direction. Words were meaningless, any conversation futile, which meant that all he had left were actions.

His choice of behavior was decided on a split second, the thought barely even hitting his mind before he followed through.

Reaching up, he opened the medicine cabinet. Just as Rachel had done so earlier, he grabbed the birth control pills – the last package Cuddy had in the house. His body blocking what he was doing, there was no way for Cuddy to know what was going on. But the second he turned around and she saw what he was doing, the dread she felt began to show.

"What are you doing?" she demanded to know.

"What you _want_."

Her eyes saw, but she didn't _see_, didn't understand. No explanation would be given for her before, he decided. The sooner he got this over with, the better it would be for all of them.

Holding the birth control over the toilet, he opened his fist. Just as Cuddy made a sound of disapproval, the pills fell into the bowl with a watery plop. For good measure, he reached over and flushed, though the plastic and foil dial was too large to go anywhere. Nevertheless, he was satisfied with his work.

Looking back to her, he wasn't surprised that she looked absolutely in shock. He also didn't care.

"There. Problem solved."

Her mouth fell open though it was impossible to tell if words or vomit would follow after the fact. For a fraction of time, it seemed like neither would occur. She was so stunned that she was almost catatonic with disbelief, and there was a moment where he wasn't sure if she would surface or protect herself in surprise for the rest of the evening.

It went without saying that that hadn't been his intention. This was not the fight he wanted to have, not the way he wanted this conversation to go. He was handling it, because the problem had presented itself and there was no way around it. But _this_ was not his endgame, not at all. And the longer it took Cuddy to recover, the more it seemed like their actual issues would never be resolved.

Eventually though she calmed herself down enough to demand slowly, "Why did you do that?"

"You said you thought about having another kid."

"_Thought_," she emphasized, her hands clenching into fists. "I didn't say I wanted a baby. In fact, I said I _didn't_ want that yesterday."

She was so angry with him.

He was completely unfazed by it.

"And yet this issue keeps coming back up," he pointed out snidely. "Which means you're either an ineffective speaker or one who's lying."

"I don't want another child, House."

He looked at her carefully, examined for some truth to the words. But all he saw was rage tunneling through the surprise.

"I don't believe you," he said simply, honestly. His voice cheery and biting, he explained, "So gimme a couple days to replenish the baby batter and then you can make yourself a sperm and egg omelet."

Cuddy looked like she was ready to hit him. Her cheeks were red with rage, her eyes wild with murderous intent. But nowhere was her anger more obvious than in her voice. "You need to listen to me. Now. I _do not_ want to –"

"It's fine," he told her hastily, not listening to her at all. "You don't even have to say that's what you want."

"Actually, I –"

"No, you can have all the babies you want. It's okay. You are free to repopulate the planet and I'll just be the sperm donor."

She snapped quickly. "And now I know you're insane. Because there is no way in _hell_ that you are going to be a _sperm donor_ to any child I have."

Cuddy was close to screaming. Her voice boomed in the bathroom, but he could tell that she was trying her best to maintain some control. Unfortunately for them both, the louder she was becoming, the noisier he wanted to be.

"Well that's what you want, isn't it?" he asked, sneering. "Someone who's convenient when _you_ want something but won't get in the way when –"

"You think that's what I want?" She swallowed back the thousands of insults percolating in her mind and on the tip of her tongue. "All I've been doing this weekend is reassure _you_, make sure that Rachel's relationship with _you_ is in tact."

"_Yeah_, as fun as it is watching you campaign for sainthood, I'm pretty sure you've had way too much dick in your mouth this weekend in order for that to stick."

"At least I'm trying," she accused. "You want to mock me for that, but one of us has to do that. And what do you do?" It was not a question she would allow him to answer; she already knew what he would say, knew all the lies he would tell to make it seem like she was the problem. "You spend all your time running away and _hiding_ and clinging to every excuse you can come up with why you're not _good_ for her or –"

"Really? That's all I do? Because it seems to me that out of the two of us, I've spent more time with her this weekend than _you_ have," he pointed out, his voice sharp, tongue like a knife capable of making her bleed.

She refused to back down. Arms folded across her chest, she didn't ask herself whether or not he was right. That didn't matter. "Yes. I'm sure you've counted the minutes you've had to spend time with her. How painful it must be for you, to have to be with –"

"In case you hadn't noticed," he snarled. By now his voice echoed in the bathroom; that was how loud it was. Any attempt to keep things quiet was gone, as was the last shred of patience he possessed. He had tried. He really had. But if she was going to make light of all he had done for her, for _Rachel,_ this weekend, he could not bear to be polite about it any longer. "I did what you asked every single time. I watched her. I fed her. I played with her. I did what I was supposed to do. But of course you _wouldn't_ notice that, because if you did, then you'd have to give me some credit and control over –"

"I shouldn't have to pat you on the _head_ every time you do something nice."

"No, you're right about that. I don't need to be _rewarded_ like a _dog_. But you purposely ignore everything I do. You pretend like –"

"_No_, I don't."

"_Yes_, you –"

"_No_, House," she interrupted loudly. "I don't _ignore_, and I don't pretend to not notice when you're good with her. I _see_ it. On the _rare_ occasion that you decide to pay attention to her, I _see_ what –"

"Rare? That's the word you're going to use there – rare?" He could taste the bitterness of the adrenaline kicking in. His heart raced as their fight escalated. "You might want to reevaluate that, because I've definitely done more than my fair share. Maybe if you'd actually paid attention to your kid recently, you'd notice that. Or were you too busy to even notice what the hell was going on right under your nose?"

He spoke with a viciousness that gave extra oomph to the words he was saying. On their own, the sentences might have been forgivable. It would have taken a while, he knew, but she would have forgiven him for it if he'd been a lot kinder with the delivery. That hadn't happened though. He had been intentionally as cruel and biting as he could be. The implication in every syllable and pause, every dark look and the ever-present sneer he'd adopted, was lacquered onto the words in a way so obvious that it no longer mattered what he'd actually said. The whisper was of all importance, the whisper that said:

_You've missed things involving your child._

_You're not a good mother_.

It was many steps too far, the line so distant he could no longer see it. But he didn't care. If she was going to imply that he hadn't done his part, she deserved it. If she was going to ignore and demean everything he did and refuse to see the problem, she had _more_ than earned every insult he could sling her way.

Even if she hadn't, he had kept this to himself for too long. Silence had bred urgency and fury. The more he'd tried to bury his thoughts this evening, the more conviction he felt. And now with a chance to actually say something to Cuddy, he was unleashing all of that pent-up energy, dumping all of it onto her without any regard for her.

Instantaneous guilt rumbled within him – proof perhaps that he had lived with Cuddy for far too long if remorse could hit him that quickly. Then again, burying the feeling in anger, he guessed he hadn't been exposed to her nearly enough. Because as bad as it made part of him feel, the rest of him easily ignored that piece, easily gave into the ire he'd been unknowingly feeding all evening long.

But it didn't matter in the end. Perhaps he might have listened to that tiny voice inside of him. He could have heard the guilt in himself and responded to that. With Cuddy standing in front of him though, her eyes narrowed with hatred and mind closed off to everything he was trying to say, "could haves" became irrelevant. She still wasn't hearing him, and that shut off any sympathy he might have had.

Did he get why she wasn't listening? _Sure_, but he didn't care. He thought she should have heard him anyway, no matter how painful it was.

That wasn't going to happen though.

"I'm a _good_ mother," she asserted without argumentativeness in her tone. She was speaking with the understanding that it was a _fact_, that nothing he said would make her doubt that. Normally he would have been impressed by her steadfastness; right now he was disappointed, knowing that his words would never reach her in the way he needed them to.

"I –"

"_Get out_."

The conversation was over. Intuitively he knew that, but part of him remained determined to make her see reason. As impossible as that was, it was what he wanted to do more than anything. So he hesitated, opened his mouth to speak.

She didn't give him a chance. "If you think I'm going to stand here and listen to you, House, you are out of your mind. Get out."

This time he listened, and she slammed the bedroom door behind it when he was outside of it. As he headed towards the couch in the living room, he thought heavily that that had… not gone as planned. He'd let his frustration get the better of him, giving her all the reason she needed to ignore every uncomfortable thing he wanted to tell her. He'd screwed up.

But he hadn't been the only one, he told himself. No, he might have been too abrasive with his delivery, but if _she_ hadn't created a problem, there would have been nothing for him to say. This really was all her fault, he thought miserably.

Settling onto the uncomfortable couch, he just wished the person who'd created the problem was the one out here – and not him. What were the chances of him convincing Cuddy of that now though?

He had half a mind to go back into the bedroom and shove _her_ out the door. But rationally he knew that would never work. Even if he could do that, it would be a regretted act the second he went to the hospital tomorrow.

As it was, she was going to be such a bitch for the next couple days. If he'd accused her of inattentiveness tonight, she'd be on his _sack_ (and not in a way he liked either) until he was so annoyed that he took the words back. It would be ten times worse if she'd slept on the couch.

She would be all over him, second-guessing him and making him run all sorts of tests without any diagnostic value out of revenge. She'd be so oppressively annoying that she would either instigate him further or bully him into an apology, and right now "I'm sorry" wasn't exactly something he planned on saying to her _ever_ about this. Which meant this week was going to suck, he thought with a sigh.

Knowing that, he closed his eyes. The chances of him sleeping on the couch all week were high. Tomorrow night maybe he would go to his apartment. But it was late now, too late for him to sleep there tonight. All he could do for himself at the moment was to try to maximize the amount of rest he could get before Cuddy went on a rampage in the morning.

_God_, she was going to be unbearable, he thought. Picturing all the ways she would make him suffer, he stayed awake for a long time.

He didn't even know he'd fallen asleep until he sat up with a jolt. His eyes were bleary with sweat, and his first, instinctual thought was that he needed to turn the heat down. The thermostat so far away, he tiredly pushed the afghan he'd curled up under off of his body. Cooler all of a sudden, he felt that that was good enough for him, and he closed his eyes in the darkness once more.

But he couldn't go back to sleep. Something – some indescribable feeling – kept him awake, pushed him closer and closer to full consciousness. At first he tried to ignore it, fought it by squeezing his eyes shut and refusing to open them no matter how tempting it might have been. As the moments wore on though, he knew he was losing the battle. He was awake.

Opening his eyes again, he jumped immediately. Standing not three feet from him was Rachel, hair mussed and pajamas rumpled, her stuffed monkey in a fluffy pile at her feet. She was staring at him, her gaze heavily hooded by eyelids and glazed over with sleep. Across from her he doubted he looked much differently.

Running his hand over his sour-tasting mouth, he waited for her to say or do something.

But she just stood there.

He decided to help her along. "Mommy's in bed," he told her firmly though not unkindly. "Go wake her up."

Rachel didn't move.

For a brief moment, he didn't think anything of it. Even when she was at her best, listening wasn't exactly her go-to behavior – which, if he hadn't known any better, he would have believed to be _genetic_. If she wasn't paying attention now, it didn't automatically mean something.

But as the seconds passed, a feeling inside of him awakened… something that said _this_ was not right. His eyes focused on her in the dark. Her hair wasn't just messy; strands clung to her face with sweat. Her muscles shook lightly, and her mouth moved like she was trying to say something but couldn't. One of her teeth accidentally clamped down on her lower lip, the flesh snagging in her bite. And then no matter how hard she tried, it seemed like she couldn't open her mouth again to say much of anything.

She didn't need to though. No matter what she would have said, House would have already known:

Something was very wrong.

_To be continued_


	23. Chapter 23

Author's Notes: Thank you to Huddyphoric, Jane Q. Doe, LiaHuddy, LapizSilkwood, newsession, Temo, EllieShelly, JessicaClackum, red blood, fantasiadvd, huddyholic, HuddyGirl, harpomarx, Alex, Lana, grouchysnarky, Abby, and IHeartHouseCuddy for taking the time to leave reviews. I'm pushing myself to finish this piece in the next week or so, and every word of encouragement is appreciated and helps motivate me to write. Thank you.

_Disclaimer: I am not Greg Yaitanes or anyone else associated with the show._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Twenty-Three: Even**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

Slowly House eased himself off the couch. The internal knowledge that something was wrong weighed heavily on him, made his heart pound with possibility and fear. But he refused to let any of that show. Rachel, though she seemed to be out of it, was staring at _him_, and if he seemed afraid, there was a chance that what part of her remained aware would see that emotion and respond in kind. How much she could actually act on her fear was hard to say. But he had no interest in finding out.

His only option to remain calm, he quietly approached her. Placing a hand on her clammy forehead, he knew he needed to measure her blood sugar. There could have been another problem at work here; with Rachel, one never really knew what they were dealing with until the matter was fully investigated. However, low blood sugar would account for all of her symptoms, and House believed that that was the best place to start.

"You feel okay?" he asked, not in the least interested in what she would say. Reaching down, he picked her up carefully, making sure not to drop her, not to wrench her so quickly that she got sick.

In his arms she shivered. Her body trembled against him as he pulled her close. She didn't fight him as she usually did. She didn't kick or scream or cry or do any of the things he was hoping in that moment she would do – the things that would reassure him that she was okay. Instead she was as close to limp as she could be while still also being conscious. And she seemed to melt into him effortlessly as he suggested, "Let's check your blood sugar. I wanna see what the meter says."

It wasn't really a suggestion, but then she couldn't fight either way.

Carefully he carried her to the kitchen where they kept all of her medicine. Again he didn't rush to get her there. In the back of his mind, he considered that taking his time was medically a bad idea. But as he had told himself a few minutes ago, he reiterated that Rachel's cooperation was key. Even if she was complying now, there was no guarantee that she could continue to do so after she became afraid. On instinct alone she might try to fight him.

He wanted to avoid that at all costs.

He didn't say anything to her as he set her onto the countertop. Keeping her propped up with one of his hands, he reached into the cupboard overhead where they kept all of Rachel's medications.

Her meter and lancing device were always kept at the forefront of the cabinet. Moonlight and a dim bulb above the sink provided enough illumination for the task at hand. He certainly didn't want to waste time turning on more lights; her health – his _curiosity_ – was too important for that.

Of course time was wasted, his fingers fumbling to put a test strip in the meter, dropping the lancet before securing it into the device properly. He blamed that on tiredness, forced himself to wake enough to stick Rachel and draw her blood. She didn't whine dramatically when he did so, as she often did. There were no accusations that he'd intentionally tried to harm her, as there occasionally was. There was nothing but silence, a sharp contrast to the way things typically were, the way they should have been.

He tried to ignore it.

He could not ignore the number displayed on the meter.

There was no time to consider why it was so low. His mind pushed for answers, to know how _that_ had happened. But he fought his own interest, warred with himself, understanding that now was not the time. Explanations were important; of that he was always sure. And yet if he didn't treat the symptoms of her illness now, she would never be alive to hear why her blood sugar had fallen so low, and what would he tell Cuddy then?

No, he thought, refusing to let himself go down that road. He couldn't wonder about the hows or whys or what would happen if he screwed up and Cuddy found out. Right now the only thing he could consider was how to best help Rachel.

Obviously that didn't take much effort on his part. Dispassionately assessing her, he felt that trying to raise her blood sugar orally was a mistake. She was conscious, yes, but there was no way she had enough awareness to be able to chew and swallow properly. If she choked, that would only compound their problems. Rubbing glucose gel or sugar on to her gums would minimize the risk of aspiration, but he worried that she would unwittingly fight him. At the moment her mouth was making small chewing movements, as though she knew what needed to be done but could not function well enough to make that happen. And if he stuck a finger in her mouth, there was the possibility that she would bite him, hinder her own recovery because she didn't know any better. So at that point, the glucagon seemed to be the best choice.

His body must have instinctively known that was the option he would choose. Before he'd even settled on the matter, his hand clasped around the thin case containing the syringe and vial of medication. He pulled it out of the cabinet and snapped the orange container open. As he rolled the vial around to mix the powder and liquid parts of the medication together, he second-guessed what he was doing – proof, he felt, that this weekend had exhausted him beyond understanding.

It felt like the right choice to make. Glucagon was typically saved for patients who were unconscious. Rachel might have been awake but just barely. Giving her the injection would give them time, would use the stored glucose in her liver to rouse her enough that she could drink and eat. But he found himself reconsidering the decision anyway.

It was right, he knew, and yet it seemed drastic. That she could be so severely hypoglycemic, that hours after he'd _personally_ given her her insulin she could be this sick… it defied sense, and House hated to give her anything without understanding just what had occurred.

There was no other choice though. While he'd been fighting with Cuddy, he'd been pushed into a corner without even knowing it. And now, trapped and without options, he could only react to what was happening.

Setting the syringe to the side, he reached for Rachel once more. Gently he guided her back onto the counter, explaining, "I'm gonna give you a shot in your thigh." He rolled her over onto her side. And even though she offered no resistance, he told her, "That's in case you barf, so I don't get vomit on me."

His hands pulled her pajama pants down enough to expose one of her thighs. The strangeness of the sight was not lost on him. As he picked up the syringe, he fought the lingering feeling of exhaustion, but he was not so out of it that he could not see how bizarre it was to have Rachel half naked on the kitchen counter. This was definitely not, at least, how he'd planned on spending his Sunday night.

Well, that wasn't exactly true.

The needle inserted into her thigh, he said, "I always wanted to get a Cuddy half naked and on the kitchen counter, but clearly I should have been more specific about that, because this is _definitely_ not what I had in mind."

She didn't flinch as he depleted the syringe, didn't fight him as she had earlier.

When he'd given her her insulin, he thought dimly, the beginning embers of realization starting to spark.

She'd _fought_ him.

_Hard_ – and when was the last time she had done that with her insulin?

At the time, he'd believed it was all about the location site. She'd always had an aversion to stomach injections, and when he'd told her that was the plan, she'd tried her best to avoid the needle. She hadn't actually said that she didn't want it in her stomach; he hadn't given her enough time to articulate what her problem was. But he'd assumed….

He'd _assumed_.

And then his mind raced back to earlier in the evening – when Rachel had come rushing to their table nearly the second dinner had started. She'd claimed to be finished eating. Cuddy had doubted her, but he hadn't seen the lie in her eyes. She had said her plate was clean. He'd believed her. But then again, had he ever really given her enough time to betray her words? Had he not been looking for a reason to keep her with them, to stop her from going back to that room filled with those douche bag kids? He knew the answer was he had been doing precisely that.

So… maybe she had been lying. Maybe… she hadn't eaten a thing.

It would make sense. The other children had called her fat, had been making fun of her all evening. If she hadn't wanted to deal with further torment, perhaps she had skipped the meal. Or maybe she'd just eaten enough that… she thought she could get away with taking the insulin?

He didn't know. And no matter what she did, what she ate or didn't, that didn't explain how she'd been able to lie to her mother and to him about the plate being empty. Then again, had anyone even _checked_ to make sure Rachel had finished her dinner? He'd been intent on being mad, and Cuddy had been focused on work, something productive at least. And it seemed not only possible but also likely then that they'd both, but perhaps he more so, had ignored all of the events that would explain what had happened. They'd missed something, something he could only guess at, circle around now.

He'd given her the appropriate amount of insulin based on her blood sugar, but clearly there were other variables to this equation that had been kept secret. Whether she'd eaten at all and how much, whether there was something else going on… it was impossible to say.

Unfortunately for all of them, Rachel couldn't either at the moment. She was pepping up for sure, her eyes not nearly as glazed over as they had been. But that didn't mean she was anywhere near ready for a conversation. Still in desperate need of something to raise her blood sugar, she wasn't going to be capable of explanations for a while.

Under normal circumstances, he would have been okay with acting on his own logic, letting himself dictate how she would be treated. He didn't trust himself to be the only set of eyes here.

He needed Cuddy.

Tossing the syringe aside, he quickly redressed Rachel. He took his time picking her up; jolting her in this state would probably make her sick to her stomach, and he hadn't been lying when he'd voiced wanting to avoid being puked on. Which was why he didn't hurry down the hallway to Cuddy.

Part of him wanted to. Part of him screamed to get to her, to have her input, to have her there to protect them all from potential mishaps and mistakes. But that was the lack of sleep, the eerie silence in the room getting to him. Fear would have propelled him forward as fast as he could move, and in doing so, he would knowingly make things worse. Scaring Rachel or making her barf – those were things he didn't need to do, ways to compound a problem that was already severe enough on its own.

Forcing himself to remain calm, he slowly walked them both down the hallway. Twice, Rachel started to gag. Each time, he stopped, held her close and still, and waited for the bout of nausea to pass. Thankfully she didn't actually throw up. Had she done so, that would have been one more thing for him to deal with, and it went without saying that he had more than enough on his plate.

By the time he actually got the kid into their bedroom, she was more alert than before. At least she was conscious enough that, when they bypassed a sleeping Cuddy, he told Rachel in a low voice, "I'm gonna get Mommy up, so I'm going to put you down." Going straight into the bathroom, he gingerly laid her down on the bath mat. His hands shifted her again, making sure she was on her side once more. "You need to stay here, Rachel."

Finally she spoke. "Mommy."

"I'm gonna get her," he said in a voice firm enough that there was no doubt as to whether he meant it. "Just stay here. Don't move." He reached back and turned on the light in the bathroom. "Even if you feel like you're getting sick," he told her. "Just stay where you are, like that. Okay?"

She nodded her head.

"I'll be right back. Let me get your mother."

House slipped out of the bathroom, closing the door partly behind him. He left it ajar, just in case Rachel needed something. But the last thing he wanted was to abruptly wake his girlfriend.

In the scheme of things, he supposed that didn't matter. He acknowledged it was trivial to care about how he woke Cuddy up. If only because, the second she learned the truth, she wouldn't care how he'd behaved, he knew it was silly to be concerned with how he brought this to her attention. Yet that didn't stop him from practically tiptoeing towards the bed, didn't prevent him from carefully sitting down on the mattress, and softly touching her arm.

As it had been with Rachel, it was important now to… manage Cuddy's reaction. That sounded awful, especially when he understood that he wasn't exactly handling any of this all that well. But hypocrisy aside, he was right to do so. Keeping Cuddy calm meant that she would be better prepared to take care of Rachel; let Cuddy react with fear and anxiety and that would eventually trickle down into Rachel's thick skull – and _then_, he'd not only have to deal with stabilizing Rachel's blood sugar, he'd have to do it while fighting all sorts of hysteria that he didn't have the ability to battle.

Even setting all of that aside, he knew he needed to be gentle here. Rachel was sick now, and what insult had he implied in his last conversation with Cuddy? That she was a bad mother, that she had missed so much this evening with regards to Rachel. _That_ was their last conversation. And if he didn't treat Cuddy with every last bit of care he possessed, she would remember those words.

She would never forgive him for them.

Sympathetic was the only way he could play this.

So far though, lightly stroking her arm wasn't getting the job done.

He leaned down and kissed her shoulder. Rubbing his stubble against her skin, he hoped to rouse her through that feeling. And he succeeded there, because suddenly she shifted on her side.

Her eyes remaining shut, she didn't say anything. She just reached back over her side and tugged at the comforter. Holding the sheets up, she was making her meaning plain. Although he doubted she had forgiven him, she was offering him a spot on the bed, allowing him to spoon against her. He wished he could accept.

When he didn't, Cuddy grumbled, "Hurry and get in. I'm getting cold."

"I know." He gently pulled the comforter out from her hand. "But we need to talk about something."

She groaned and shifted around a little. Throughout she kept her eyes closed. "It can wait. Go to sleep."

"I wish I could do that," he admitted. She looked like she was already no longer listening, so he placed a palm on her back. "But I need you to get up."

If anything she did the opposite of that. Rolling onto her stomach, she seemed more intent on sleeping than she had before. "If I say I'm not mad, will you shut up and let me sleep?"

"It's not that simple."

She scoffed.

"You can be mad at me. This isn't about that." When that got absolutely no reaction from her, he told her, "Cuddy, this is important. I need you to sit up." As an afterthought, he added, "Please."

Finally she listened. Rolling over again, she slowly sat up, all the while making it absolutely clear why she was doing so. "Fine. Fine, fine, if it will shut you up, I'm awake."

And yet, as cross as she sounded, when she finally did sit up, she slumped straight away into his embrace. Then again, she probably just wanted to fall asleep again as quickly as possible. Not for a second then did he take it to mean that all had been forgiven.

He proceeded carefully.

"Rachel's awake," he said slowly.

"Hmm," Cuddy mumbled in understanding. "Nightmare?"

He wished that were the case. Since it wasn't, he forced himself to begin to say the things he never wanted to tell her. "No. No, that's not –"

"She wet the bed." It didn't come out as a question, which took him by surprise. From an outside perspective, he thought her conclusion was an understandable one; the kid hadn't met a mattress she hadn't enjoyed pissing on at one point or another. But he hadn't expected Cuddy to take the conversation in that direction. He hadn't thought about her reaction much at all. And in the moment, it threw him for a loop, giving her enough time to say, "All right. I'll take care of it."

He grabbed a hand before she could pull away.

"No. She didn't wet the bed."

"Then –"

"Her blood sugar is low."

It was the most pedestrian way of putting it, an understatement that unquestionably insulted her considerable intelligence. Endocrinology was her specialty, her mind having always had a knack for large, complex systems and problems requiring long-term care and nurturing. She worked in degrees, in small adjustments, in situations where the smallest degree of nuance made a difference, but he was talking to her now as though she couldn't possibly understand anything remotely complicated. This was what she'd studied, but he was treating her like she was an idiot. He hated himself for it, because she shouldn't have thought that was necessary.

Cuddy didn't seem to notice any of it though. Pulling back from him, she squinted into the dark. Suddenly she jerked back and turned the light on behind her. Her gaze serious and trained on him, she asked, "How low?"

He didn't want to answer the question directly. As intelligent as he knew she was, he also understood that people tended to be idiotic when it came to their own kids. Giving her the exact number of milligrams per deciliter would make that worse for her. In telling her, he would be calling onto that part of her that was well equipped to handle these kinds of situations. But being that she was also the patient's mother, Cuddy would be biased, crazed for action that didn't necessarily suit Rachel's needs.

Granted, being vague wasn't exactly going to stop her from going down that road. She had more than enough knowledge to take whatever information he gave her about Rachel's condition to go absolutely insane. Nevertheless, he had to do his best to manage this.

"I gave her glucagon five minutes ago" was what he told her.

"She was _unconscious?"_

He had to hold her hand tight then to keep her from springing up out of the bed. "Almost. But she's responding to it. I just need someone to sit with her while –"

"Okay."

"Listen to me."

"I said _okay_."

There was a threat in her tone, a demand to be let go of or face the consequences. He heard it, but he didn't respond. Although she had every right to want to rush to her daughter, he knew that allowing her to do so now, when she was obviously upset, would be a mistake.

"You need to calm –"

"Oh go to Hell."

"Cuddy," he implored. Her eyes flashed angrily, and her mouth briefly twisting into something hard and angry looking, it was only a matter of time before she yelled at him. He acted quickly. "Right now, she is scared but listening to me. You go in there like _this_, you're going to upset her, and that's going to make treating her that much more difficult. You need to calm down."

She heard him. She didn't want to, but she had heard what he'd said. And as much as she hated to admit it, he was right.

"She's responding to the glucagon," he said gently, thumb rubbing the back of her hand. "I'm gonna make her something to eat, but she needs you to sit with her and tell her everything is going to be okay."

At first Cuddy thought she could do that much. Comforting her child was hardly something she was inexperienced in. But then, at a second glance, Cuddy was taken by the tone House was using, the one that made the unspoken clause somehow audible to her ears. What he'd said was she needed to sit with Rachel; what he'd meant was tell her everything was going to be okay – even if it _wasn't_.

Then Cuddy couldn't move even if she'd tried.

Her voice raspier than it had been, she cautiously asked, "How bad, House?"

She could see him fight the urge to look away. Her stomach clenched violently as she waited for him to voice the fear he clearly felt.

"Bad," he said honestly. "I don't think she ate at the party." And then he had to make matters worse by adding, "I gave her her insulin."

One of those factors was problematic. _Both of them_ occurring on the same night was unfathomably disastrous. They both knew it.

House looked at her as though he was waiting for her to scream at him, to lay the blame at his feet, but he couldn't have been more wrong about that happening. If she had felt anger, it was overwhelmed by the feeling of impending disaster. Fear numbing her to everything else, what part he had or hadn't played couldn't even begin to enter her consciousness. She was too busy thinking _Rachel_ over and over until the repetition made her feel as though her daughter was already slipping from her arms.

And then she thought that, if that were a possibility here, if he felt like it was, she needed to know.

Exhaling roughly, she asked, "Do I need to get the bag?" When she'd filled the tote of things they would need if Rachel were hospitalized, she had wondered what it would be like _when_ this happened. She'd never doubted that it would, that eventually her medical conditions would get the best of her. Cuddy just hadn't realized that day would come so soon.

"I don't know," House answered honestly. "Not yet… but… maybe."

She sneered at his caution. Although she had no doubt he was being truthful, she resented the way he was hedging. He hadn't lied _yet_, hadn't been so intent on keeping her _calm_ that he made things seem better than they were. But looking at him, hearing him, she knew what he was doing. He was trying to keep her _contained_. As though she were a psychotic moron who had no idea that scaring her daughter would be bad, he was attempting to control.

She hated him for that – _despised_ him. Rationally she understood that she didn't blame him for what had happened. But the way he was treating her now was, in the moment, unforgivable. He was sitting here in order to calm her down when they _both_ should have been focused on _Rachel_.

Then, no matter how tightly he held her, she forcefully wrenched her hand from his. Standing up, she let that frustration shine through for him to see.

"_Fix this_," she seethed. "If you ever want me to speak to you again, you will _fix this_."

She walked away before he could respond. Truth be told, she knew how he would react; he would feel guilty, and then that would make her angrier. Again, possessing all the reason in the world, she could sympathize with that reaction, with what he was doing. But this wasn't about him or _them_ for that matter. _Rachel_ was the concern here, and he was wasting everyone's time by making this somehow about him.

Pushing the bathroom door open, Cuddy frowned the second she saw her daughter curled up in the fetal position on the floor. He'd put her on the bathmat, but that was all he had done, apparently.

Reaching behind her, Cuddy grabbed her bathrobe off the metal hook on the door.

The motion caught Rachel's eye. "Mommy," she cried.

"I'm here," Cuddy said sliding to the ground. Quickly she went to work, bundling Rachel in the bathrobe and pulling her onto her lap. "Come here, baby."

Rachel eagerly curled into her, face pressed into her chest as she had when she'd been an infant. But she was no longer a baby. Short as she might have been for her age, her feet and legs still dangled over the edge of Cuddy's lap. And it was difficult for Cuddy to truly cradle all of her daughter, as she so desperately needed to do in that moment.

"It's okay," Cuddy told her, pressing kisses into her sweaty hair. The words sounded hollow. Rachel shook in her arms, proof enough that things were far from _okay_.

"Don't feel good."

"I know."

"My tummy…." Rachel's voice dissolved into a whine. She was on the verge of tears, knowing, even in this state, that this wasn't right.

"You're hungry," Cuddy simplified. "But House is making you something to eat, and then you'll feel a little better, okay?"

And then Rachel _did_ start to cry. Big blubbery tears that seemed to have come from nowhere, she sobbed. "Tummy," she repeated, burying her face further into Cuddy's tank top.

It made no sense that Rachel should behave that way. Cuddy hadn't said anything offensive or bad; there'd been no threat of punishment, no questioning as to why this had happened. But that was how Rachel was reacting – like she'd done something wrong.

Cuddy wasn't sure if that was the truth. Rachel might have been acting as though she were guilty, but the fact of the matter was it was impossible to tell when she was in this state. It was just as likely that House had overmedicated her or that this was a fluke; Rachel's reaction meant little, other than that she was in desperate need of glucose in her system.

For that reason alone, Cuddy ignored the anguished guilt all over her daughter's features. "It'll be all right," she told her sympathetically. "I promise you. You'll feel so much better when you have something eat."

Thankfully, at that precise second, House entered the bathroom once more. In his hands was a breakfast tray with a sandwich and a small, clear plastic cup of Sprite set to one side. He'd also managed to pick up Rachel's meter, lancing device, test strips, and lancets thankfully.

Cuddy wasn't satisfied though, feeling that there weren't enough carbohydrates to counteract the insulin. And she had no problem letting her disappointment shine through when she took the tray from him. He'd done his best to get food to Rachel as quickly as he could, which was why Cuddy didn't say anything out loud. But somehow his best still struck her as being inadequate.

At that point, it was undeniable that she was being unfair. She was blaming him regardless of what had actually happened. She was blaming him for this happening _at all_. For all of her disgust that he was trying to comfort her like a child, she had expected him to prevent this from occurring to begin with.

_Like_ a child.

She had unknowingly put so much faith and trust in him that she had demanded nothing less than perfection when it came to caring for Rachel. And then she'd gotten mad when he'd simultaneously failed to live up to that demand and tried to meet it in other ways.

Cuddy knew it wasn't fair. Her eyes flashing apology, she knew she was being awful to him, remnants of their argument seeping into their first interactions following. But she didn't have it in her to apologize.

He'd implied she was a bad mother. He'd thrown her birth control into the toilet and accused _her_ of being ignorant when it came to her daughter.

And now he'd been proven right. So, really, he didn't need an apology. All that mattered to him was being right anyway, right?

And he was.

She was an awful mother to let this happen. If Rachel hadn't eaten, if he'd given her too much insulin, if _something_ had gone wrong to this extent, it was Cuddy's fault. It was her responsibility, and no one else's, to make sure this didn't happen. It was _her_ job to protect her daughter. No matter how much importance she'd placed on House, at the end of the day, he wasn't her father. He wasn't the one who'd been taken an oath under law to treat Rachel as though she were his own flesh and blood, to love her and teach her and keep her safe.

Cuddy knew: this was _her _fault.

And therefore she was the only one who could fix this.

Setting the tray on the ground, she plucked the cup of soda and brought it towards Rachel's mouth. As House awkwardly sat down, Cuddy fought with her daughter to drink.

"Come on, monkey. Just take a little sip."

Rachel tried to push the cup away. "No."

"Please," Cuddy implored, pushing the plastic rim on the glass into Rachel's lower lip.

"_Drink_," House said in a voice that was a lot less kind. It wasn't said angrily; he didn't shout. But the order was apparently well received enough for Rachel to do just that. The soda slowly disappearing from the cup, it was both a welcome sight…

And one that made Cuddy stew with resentment.

He wrapped an arm around her waist then, pulled her into a loose embrace, as if to tell her that it was okay. In any other situation, she might have appreciated the support. Right now, she wanted to kill him.

He didn't even care about Rachel, but she listened to _him_?

Of course he was going to be sympathetic, Cuddy thought bitterly. He wasn't the one with a daughter who seemed to intent on being obedient for everyone but her _mother_.

The idea immediately recognized as a ridiculous one, Cuddy fought the urge to laugh. She must have been exhausted or insane with fear or just insane if she thought Rachel were capable of sustained acquiescence for _anyone_. Clearly, she must have been crazy to entertain that thought for more than a second without remembering just how stubborn her child was even under the best of circumstances.

House, perhaps understanding the same thing, tried to maximize this rare moment of obedience. Picking up the sandwich he'd made, he ripped off a piece, little bits of ham peaking out of the torn bread.

"Here," he said holding the bite up to Rachel's mouth. "Can you eat this?"

Rachel batted the cup out of her face. Sitting up, she eagerly ate the food House offered her.

Again, Cuddy couldn't help but feel a pang of immature jealousy course through her. But right now, she reminded herself, getting Rachel better was the only thing that mattered. How it made Cuddy feel as a mother was… unimportant by comparison. So she quietly sat back and watched as House fed her daughter.

Every now and then, Cuddy would offer Rachel a few words of encouragement or give her a couple kisses to keep her eating the sandwich. But beyond those few small actions, she could only sit there and jealously watch.

The camaraderie between House and Rachel ended abruptly though, not ten minutes later when Rachel scrambled towards the toilet and, thanks to the glucagon, threw up the sandwich.

_Then_ Cuddy was needed. Rachel was crying and reaching for her and sniffling into her tank top – completely undone by vomiting. As House slipped out of the bathroom to, presumably, make another sandwich, Cuddy understood how her daughter felt.

"Shhh," she shushed, wiping her daughter's face with a cool washcloth.

"I throwed up!"

Cuddy grimaced. "I know." The smell alone was proof enough of that fact. "It just means the medicine is working, Rachel. How about we rinse your mouth out a little bit?"

In the end it did little to calm Rachel down. There was a chance it would have under normal circumstances. If she'd gotten sick and then had nothing to look forward to other than being cradled in her mother's arms, maybe she would have relaxed. But the fact was: these were not normal circumstances. And even though she'd just vomited, based on her latest glucose reading, her blood sugar was still too low, which meant she had to keep eating.

This time, Rachel wasn't so interested in listening to House. He did his best, of course, speaking in that voice that suggested she had no choice. But Rachel stubbornly refused.

"One bite."

"No!"

"Yes."

"No!" she screamed shaking her head.

"Yeah, see, this isn't really an option."

"No!"

"Shut up," he nearly whined. "Just be like your mother: stop bitching, open your mouth, and take –"

Cuddy's nails violently digging into the skin on his arm prevented him from finishing the sentence. He swallowed back the yelp he clearly wanted to make, instead pulling his flesh away from her claws as quickly as he could.

Instantly he switched tactics, as though that would make things all better. "You know… I think I know where we have some candy."

"Well you know what I think?" Cuddy asked in a dark tone.

"That I should go find it?"

"Exactly."

He disappeared again, his absence forcing Cuddy to realize that Rachel's wide eyes were on her. Immediately Cuddy looked down in embarrassment and forced herself to admit to her daughter, "I shouldn't have done that. It's not nice to hurt people, which is why –"

"You scratched him."

The fact that Rachel could articulate her hypocrisy was a good sign, Cuddy thought. At least it meant she'd received enough of a jolt from the soda and first sandwich to raise her blood sugar a little bit.

"Yes," she admitted. "And I will apologize to him when he comes back. But if you want candy, you need to eat this," she said, pointing to the half sandwich sitting on the plate.

Rachel frowned. "I don't wanna. Don't wanna be sick."

"I know. But this is what's going to make you feel better. The longer you wait to eat the sandwich, the worse you're going to feel. So you need to eat up." Rachel hesitated. "If you want candy, you're going to have to eat the sandwich."

The softly worded order was unappreciated, but ultimately Rachel did as instructed. Her fingers still shaking lightly, she picked up the sandwich and started to munch on it.

"There we go," Cuddy said encouragingly, smoothing her daughter's hair back. "That's not so bad, is it?"

"Here we go," House announced, victoriously reentering the bathroom. Rachel started to put down the sandwich, but for the first time in his life, Cuddy thought bitterly, he didn't cave. "No. Eat your sandwich first."

Rachel did, but her gaze was trained on Cuddy, as though she were waiting for the apology to come. And though Cuddy didn't really feel like saying she was sorry, she knew that it would come back to haunt her if she didn't.

Sighing, she forced herself to mutter once House was sitting next to her once more, "I'm sorry. For scratching you. I… shouldn't have done that."

He was tempted to make her work for it. Although she hadn't actually said much to him since this began, he could see the blame in her eyes. He could see the disgust and the frustration and even a little bit of hatred at times. She might have been apologizing for trying to scratch him, but he didn't care about _that_. He cared about everything else she'd done, the actions that had screamed he had no place here. But holding onto his own resentment would only make her that much more determined to hold onto hers. So he let it go.

"It's all right," he said with a shrug.

They sat with the uncomfortable knowledge that neither really meant any of it.

But they would pretend, for as long as it took to get Rachel through this medical emergency.

Doing that was obviously easier said than done. It was hard to sit next to Cuddy, knowing how she felt, knowing that he'd been correct earlier to think that he hadn't gotten through to her at all. Part of that was of course his own fault, for allowing himself to be distracted by Arianne's pregnancy and his boiling frustration from all of it. But afterwards, as he had tried to fall asleep, he had _hoped_ that Cuddy had somehow understood, in _some _way managed to decipher what he'd meant to say.

Sitting next to her now, he knew all too well that she hadn't. He couldn't blame her for that, because he acknowledged that he'd allowed himself to get off track. Yet he wished he hadn't had to say something. He wished she had known, could see what she was doing, and correct herself.

That she couldn't made him resentful. _She'd_ been the one to bring all of them together as a family… as something that resembled one from the outside anyway. _She'd_ forced them, _begged_ him to forge a relationship with Rachel.

_She'd_ been the one to get angry when he had the slightest bit of success in that area.

Yes, he thought. He was resentful of that. He had every right to be too. But keeping that from Rachel was of utmost importance at the moment; making sure that she was okay, that she wasn't secondary to her mother's _crap_ was what mattered. Again though: it was all easier said than done.

Every now and then, Cuddy would reach for the glucose meter at the same time he did. And their attention suddenly removed from Rachel, they would stare at one another, silently compete and fight for the right to do something as simple as measure Rachel's blood. They did not speak; even if he'd wanted to, he didn't trust her, much less himself, to do it without a fight breaking out. So they stayed quiet.

For an hour, they cared for Rachel without so much as a word to one another. Oh sure, every once in a while, she would ask what the meter had said, or he would offer to stick Rachel in the foot while she rocked Rachel back to sleep. But required small talk aside, they were silent. And slowly, they nursed Rachel back to health.

As the night wore on, it became clear that, for now, they would avoid a hospital. The little girl never said whether or not she'd eaten, and House wasn't convinced she would ever tell the truth. She was dumb, yes, but she wasn't so stupid as to admit out right that she had intentionally skipped dinner.

In any case, whatever the cause, she was bouncing back well enough. Her blood glucose stabilized eventually, though she complained of nausea and a headache for the remainder of the evening. But then both of those things were to be expected.

"Just close your eyes," Cuddy said in a low voice, so as not to make Rachel's headache worse. "You can sleep a little bit."

Rachel shifted uncomfortably on her mother's lap. "Don't wanna." Yet she tiredly rubbed at her eyes anyway.

"We'll wake you up if we need you," he explained, earning him a look from Cuddy suggesting that she didn't want his help.

"Try to get some sleep," Cuddy said eventually turning her attention back to her daughter. "It'll be okay."

Rachel looked at both of them, her eyes darting back and forth. As though she knew something wasn't quite right, it was obvious she didn't believe them. But it was far past her bedtime; her body had been forced to handle more than its fair share of stress tonight, and no matter how hard she tried to fight it, slumber was calling for her. Her eyelids growing heavy, she fell asleep not ten minutes after that.

House didn't dare say anything in those few moments after Rachel no longer moved. Afraid that she would wake up, he didn't want to do anything that would destroy the tentative calm in the small bathroom. Cuddy must have felt the same way, because she was similarly silent, even though it felt like they were both brimming with things to say.

For that very reason, after no more than five minutes, he decided to be the first one to speak up. "She'll be okay," he offered, knowing that the sentiment was one that spoke to absolutely none of the issues they were facing. He'd gone with the line, in spite of its inherent lameness anyway; thinking that it would at least put some of their crap into perspective, he hoped it would be something they could agree on.

And they did… just not in the way he hoped.

"I know," she said coldly.

He sighed, twisted the lancing device between his fingers. "You blame me."

"Yes," she replied after a second. "And no. We both weren't paying attention to what was happening."

The inference of her own guilt made him feel bad for her. He didn't want to be the one blamed for Rachel's hypoglycemia, although it was appropriate. But he also didn't want Cuddy to think that she had done something wrong. As much as she had screwed up, _was_ screwing up this evening, she hadn't done anything to make things worse for Rachel. Painful though it was for him to admit it, her reluctance was created from a desire to protect her daughter. And that was frustrating for him, but it also left no doubt that Cuddy cared about Rachel.

Sympathetic he reached over to stroke Cuddy's cheek.

She pulled away.

"This isn't your fault," he offered, dropping his hand to his side.

She was unconvinced. "It is."

"You couldn't –"

"Have known?" She rolled her eyes in irritation. "If I hadn't been so focused on that _stupid_ party –"

"You were working."

She smiled at the reason he offered, but it was devoid of any joy. If anything she appeared then more bitter and weathered than she ever had.

"Of course," she said bitterly.

"She understands" was his reply, but somehow that was met with even more derision.

"No. She doesn't."

House was tempted to say that at some point Rachel would understand – not because he thought that it would make Cuddy feel better (though it might), but because he knew it was true. It would have been foolish to think that Rachel's tiny brain could understand what it meant to have a working mother, to have a mother exponentially more successful than her peers, both male and female. Rachel measured worth in the amount of time spent with her, things done _for her_, and at her age, she couldn't possibly comprehend much less appreciate the example Cuddy was setting. But when they were all older, when Rachel had to start working for herself, she would understand then just what it was her mother had done all of those years. He had no doubt about that.

Right now though, that assurance wasn't enough.

"Even if she did," Cuddy said with a shrug. "Does it matter? When we got back from the party…. I should have noticed."

"She was asleep."

"And we were fighting." The judgment in her voice was impossible to miss though it wasn't aimed solely in his direction.

Thinking that she would never believe him that she wasn't responsible, House considered that maybe now was the right time to change the subject to that fight. "About that…."

"No," she said, cutting him off. "I don't want to talk about that."

"You don't think we need to?"

"I don't want to fight."

He nodded his head in agreement. "Good, because I don't want to fight with you either. But –"

"No," she whined quietly. "No buts. Let's just agree and –"

"We can do that," he conceded. "We've done that all weekend and before that, for a long time actually. We keep avoiding this conversation or skirting around the issue, but that's not –"

"I have no idea what you are talking about," she said through gritted teeth. Her cheeks red with frustration, she was doing her best to keep her voice down.

He knew that if he wanted to come to some sort of resolution, he would have to choose his words with care.

"You're mad at me. Okay. Fine. But you don't say what it is that's bothering you," she told him, obviously finding it hard to remain calm.

"I know." He chose to agree with her, even though he didn't really feel it. In his mind, he had made his feelings quite clear in the past. It was obvious to him. But if Cuddy said she didn't know, then he decided it was best for him to play it as if she was telling the truth. He didn't want to fight, but they would definitely if he accused her of lying.

"I'm not trying to play games with you," he told her honestly. "That's not… I'm not doing that."

"You could have fooled me."

He ignored the cold remark. "I've been waiting for you to decide what you want. I haven't said anything, because Rachel's your daughter, and I know I haven't… always appreciated that," he said in even tones. "I have tried to do what you want. The _problem_ with that is you don't know what you want."

Cuddy shook her head in disbelief. "That's not true."

"When you found us tonight and Rachel was sleeping on my lap, what did you think?"

She knew what she had thought, which was why she didn't want to answer the question. But in the end, it didn't matter, because he had obviously been able to guess what she thought.

"You were upset," he said knowingly. "Jealous, because she was with me, and we had something going on that didn't involve you."

She felt compelled to deny it. Stroking her sleeping daughter's hair, Cuddy told him, "She was sleeping on you. That's not exactly –"

"I'm not saying it is. But… you were upset anyway."

"I wasn't."

"Okay," he said, capitulating. "If that's true, that's true. That's fine."

"It is true," she insisted, even though she was lying. The fact that he didn't seem intent on fighting her just made her feel awful about it. Because if he'd called her a liar, she could focus on the argument. But his bright eyes silently imploring her for honesty… _that_ was something she wasn't prepared to fight.

"Okay," he said calmly as though he believed her (she told herself he didn't). "Then what about when she drank the soda for me and –"

"Oh come on," she interrupted.

Inwardly she berated herself for behaving this way. He was right. Over and over, she repeated: he was _right_. He wasn't guessing this, wasn't making this up, wasn't trying to fight with her. He was _accurately_ describing her behavior.

And she was _fighting_ him over it.

For _what_?

She was the one doing it, but it boggled her mind.

_What_ was she doing?

And yet, even without an answer, she found herself hoping he wouldn't notice the fact that she was thinking any of this.

Of course, however, he _did_.

His hand moving to the back of her neck, he lightly stroked her nape with a finger. "You have to stop this," he said calmly. "I love you. And… _her_. But if you don't decide what you want, what _place_ you want me to have in her life, this _can't_ work." He reached down and picked up the lancelet he'd dropped. "It just can't."

She didn't say anything as he pricked one of Rachel's fingers for blood. There was nothing _to_ say. He was right. She was screwing everything up. In all of the scenarios in which their relationship failed, it had always been, in her mind, _he_ who couldn't adapt. But in the actual moment, Cuddy knew that she was more the problem than he had been. He wasn't perfect – _God_, he wasn't. Yet he somehow managed to be the less screwed up one at the moment. How the hell _that_ had happened she didn't know. It had though.

No longer trusting herself to make any sense in the situation, she didn't let herself speak. Somehow she was sure she would only make things worse.

"We're still on target," House said, turning off the glucose meter again.

Cuddy nodded her head. Feeling like she could talk about the medicine, she allowed herself to point out, "I'll still need to check it for the next couple of hours, make sure it doesn't drop again."

"I'll do it," he offered.

Her lips pursed, she refrained from groaning, as she wanted to. He was just trying to make her feel worse than she already did, right? He'd made his point – she was being awful and indecisive while he tried his best to please her – and now he was driving that point home by showing just how _sweet_ he could be. Right?

"You don't have to," she forced herself to say diplomatically.

"I'll do it."

And that was all she could take. Once again doing all she could to keep her voice low, she said, "You've made your point. All right? I get it. I'm –"

"This isn't about making a point."

"Really."

"I get why you think it is, but this has nothing to do with that. I don't need prove my point anymore than I already have," he asserted matter of factly. "Actually, I didn't ever need to prove my point, because you've known just as long as I have that you've been –"

"Then why are you offering?" she asked in frustration.

"You have work tomorrow."

She laughed. She couldn't help it. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I forget something? You don't have a job to go to?"

"Lucky for me, I have an understanding boss."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that."

"You have this thing with the D.E.A. in the morning… and who knows how long that's going to take? You're going to need your rest for that."

"I made it through med school," she reminded him. "I'll be fine."

"And one of us is going to have to stay home tomorrow with her anyway so –"

"I didn't think about that." She really hadn't. Maybe it was the exhaustion talking, but Cuddy hadn't considered what they would do with Rachel in the morning. Then again, there'd been such an effort just to get through the _now_, to get Rachel back to some semblance of healthy, that what they would do hours from now had seemed so far away as to be unimportant.

Now though Cuddy could only think of that, could only believe that House was right. Rachel couldn't go to school tomorrow. On even the best of days, her teachers were idiotic and inattentive. In her current state, Rachel needed very specific care. The glucagon could easily make her sick for the next day or so, and it would take longer for her body to bounce back from being so gravely off balance. And Cuddy _couldn't _trust that school to handle Rachel when she was like that.

"Then I'll stay home," Cuddy said, feeling as though that were the best option available.

"No. You have to go to work."

"I can –"

"The D.E.A.'s going to be there, and they are going to be looking for anything out of place," he pointed out. "The Dean of Medicine stays home on the –"

"As opposed to the doctor with a well known drug problem?"

House waved the question off. "I like _doing_ drugs. I don't enjoy selling them or turning them into meth so some fifteen year old the creepy neighbor molested can get high."

"I'm sure they'll make that distinction," she said wearily.

"They don't care about me. I am… unimportant in this equation. _You _matter." She bristled at the idea, but he didn't give her a chance to deny it. "I stay home? I'm taking care of my girlfriend's kid in the hopes you'll feel _very_ thankful and have more sex with me. _You_ stay home? It looks like you have something to hide."

She wasn't convinced. "Right. Because I timed my daughter's illness to –"

"Doesn't matter. You're not there; it will be a problem. None of which, by the way, takes into account the fact that you kissed all that ass this evening to prove that you are good at your job."

"You think if I'm not there, they'll think I can't do my job."

"Am I wrong about that?"

She hesitated, hated admitting the truth. "No. But I don't care about –"

"You're going to throw _all_ of that away so that –"

"I can take care of my daughter?"

"You have someone who can take care of your daughter," he pointed calmly. "I won't let anything happen to her. And you _know_ I'll give her the care she needs. So if you throw it away, it's because you don't want _me_ to watch her."

She didn't accept that argument. Sure, on some level, maybe he was right. But he was ignoring one key fact. "I'm not allowed to want to watch her myself?"

"You can want it, sure. It's not the smart choice to make."

"According to _you_."

"According to anyone with logic, really."

"House, in case you're forgetting, I've asked you to watch her several times this weekend."

"And I did."

"You complained –"

"But I did it anyway," he said in a firm though not angry voice. "You asked a couple of times, and I did it. And then at the party, you didn't ask, but I did it anyway. Now I'm offering, and you're against it, and you don't think that means something?"

"Fine." She capitulated abruptly. "I will go to work tomorrow, and you can watch her."

She was doing it to prove him wrong, he knew. At least, she _thought_ she was handing his ass to him by letting him take care of Rachel. But he felt that the only thing she was doing was proving him right. The way she could change her mind so quickly, the way she avoided any self-reflection – it was all part of the same problem. She had _no_ clue what she wanted, and any attempt to help her decide made her angry. She was conceding, but nothing had been decided much less changed.

"I will," he agreed.

"_Wonderful_."

Somehow, he thought, even when they agreed, it seemed like they were fighting. Leaning his head back against the bathroom wall, he couldn't help but think that this would be a long night.

_To be continued_


	24. Chapter 24

Author's Notes: Thank you to Huddyphoric, LapizSilkwood, Jane Q. Doe, dmarchl, MissBates, NickAmaral, Josam, LiaHuddy, houseblue, red blood, HuddyGirl, Alex, Abby, grouchysnarky, Lana, fantasiadvd, GratefulInsomniac, Temo, JessicaClackum, EllieShelly, newsession, IHeartHouseCuddy, and the anonymous user for all taking the time to leave a comment. As I reach the end of this journey, it is so nice to see that there are still people who enjoy this piece and are eager to see how things end. Thank you.

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Twenty-Four: Monday Morning**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

_"Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

She woke up ten minutes before her alarm was set to go off; eyes bleary and dry, throat scratchy, she found herself on his side of the bed, her face pressed into House's armpit and Rachel just as awkwardly trapped between their bodies. At some point during the night, they'd left the bathroom floor and moved to bed. But as Cuddy sat up, she realized that that hadn't made for a better night's sleep.

At least, it hadn't for _her_. Rachel certainly didn't seem to be having trouble with sleep, Cuddy thought. And though he had promised to stay awake all night, had told her _many_ times last night that he would _not_ fall asleep, there House was: passed out on his back and snoring.

How long he had been like that she didn't know. It could have been five minutes; it could have been a few _hours_. And if it were the latter, then that meant Rachel hadn't been monitored in all of that time.

That possibility forcefully waking Cuddy up, she didn't have time to be mad. No doubt House would hear about this – she would make sure of_ that_ – but right now, what mattered was making sure Rachel was okay.

Sitting up, Cuddy reached towards the nightstand on House's side of the room. All of Rachel's supplies were strewn on top of the wooden table, but she only grabbed the lightly crumpled piece of paper there. Throughout the night, House had written down whatever the meter had said and what time the measurement had been taken. He'd said he would do that anyway. If she could see the last time he'd jotted down, she thought she would have a better idea of how long he'd been asleep.

Upon seeing the last time – a mere fifteen minutes ago – she was relieved. He had done what he'd said, the times listed coming at the precise intervals he had _said_ he would test Rachel. He hadn't lied.

Yet as soon as she thought that, she wondered if he _had_ done that. If he'd just put down numbers and times and gone to sleep, she would never know the difference. He'd get a full night's rest, and she would think he'd stayed awake all night; he'd reap all the reward without any of the effort.

_No_.

Even as some part of her entertained the idea, she could hear the idea's ridiculousness in her head. House hated running unnecessary tests, but there was no way to know Rachel's health by simply looking at her. The test was fundamental, and even if it weren't, he wasn't dumb enough, self-destructive enough, to _guess_ when it came to his girlfriend's child. As much as he could be a manipulative liar, a _lazy_ man, he would not do _that_. After all, if he'd hated Rachel or _her_ that much, it would have been much easier to never offer watching Rachel.

He wouldn't volunteer and then change his mind.

And yet… Cuddy found herself toying with the possibility anyway. Unlikely as it was, it was something she had to actively work at to dismiss.

The situation so bizarre, she didn't trust herself to stay in bed a second longer. The closer she was to him, the more likely it was she would say something, act on the insanity brewing in her mind.

Pushing the covers off her body, she carefully extricated herself from bed. Exhausted as she was, she knew it wasn't a good idea to stay where she was. She would just start a fight if she remained anywhere near him.

To get away, her first instinct was to go for a run. Her muscles longed for the burn of lactic acid and the feeling of being pushed beyond their limits. The sound of her pulse and the rasp of her breath the only thing she could hear, she wanted to fall into the rhythm of movement, get lost in the long strides of her legs. Sweat dripping down her body and freedom her only companion, she wanted to wile away the worry in exercise. But she didn't have the time to run as many miles as she clearly needed in order to relax. And in any case, she couldn't exactly leave Rachel home with House unconscious.

Yoga would have eliminated the need to go out of the home, and it definitely had the potential to be relaxing. But Cuddy knew she didn't possess enough calm to really get into the exercise. She was too tightly wound for stretches and controlled breathing. She might have been able to go through the motions, but it wouldn't make her feel any better. So really the only thing she could do was take a shower and get ready for work.

As the hot water cascaded down her back, she did her best to mentally prepare herself for the day. There was no denying that work would be awful. The D.E.A. would be all over her staff – and _her_ – and she knew she should be focused on that fact. Devising a plan for how she would manage their presence _should_ have been on her mind. But no matter how hard she tried, she found herself focused on Rachel and House.

To say last night had been an emotional… _catastrophe_ was an understatement. Cuddy had found herself so _angry_ at House. And she still didn't understand why. He had been supportive, done his best to make _her_ feel better.

He had saved Rachel's life.

But Cuddy had reacted to his comfort as though he were patronizing her. She'd been jealous and selfish when it came to Rachel, and she _still_ had trouble recognizing fully just how much he'd done the night before. Because the second she tried to appreciate what he'd done, tried to come to terms with the fact that she'd been embarrassingly childish, she rejected the idea.

He _had_ been condescending. He'd been helpful, yes, calm, obviously, but in _that_ way… when he wanted to make her look absolutely nuts and himself the martyr. It sounded crazy, but that was what he did. He knew that, if he was aggressive, she would respond in kind; if he were nice though, he could possibly guilt her into submission.

Had he really been doing that last night though?

Shampooing her hair with extra vigor, Cuddy wasn't sure. In the actual moment, he hadn't seemed to want much of anything. He'd said… well, that was the problem, wasn't it? She'd been so focused on Rachel's condition, so _afraid_, that the words he'd spoken were now nothing but vague notions in her head. But she did her best, strained to recapture the things he'd told her.

He'd said that… she had been jealous when Rachel had fallen asleep on his lap. And she had been though she had denied it and would in all likelihood continue to do so. But aside from asking her to admit it, House had not in that instance been trying to cajole her. Then again, maybe he had, and in a haze of concern for her daughter, Cuddy had just forgotten all about it.

But that seemed unlikely. The events after they'd shifted to the bedroom were clearer in her mind, and she couldn't recall any manipulation. Truth be told, that would have been the time to do it. They'd known at that point that Rachel would be okay – thanks to _House's_ quick action. And if he'd been interested in forcing Cuddy into something, that would have been the time. Because even if she hadn't been feeling all that grateful, that moment had been the right time to bring something up. If only because it had been easier for her to notice what was going on around her, he would have been smart to press her for action then.

Cuddy wished that wasn't the case. She _wished_ with everything she had that her memory had failed her during that time.

She'd _cried_.

They'd gotten situated in bed, the diabetes supplies next to House and Rachel wedged between them. He'd said he would stay awake all night; he'd encouraged her to fall asleep. And without anything to occupy her thoughts, Cuddy had been overwhelmed by the danger they'd just barely managed to keep at bay.

"Are you crying?" he'd asked in surprise, eyes glancing over at her.

She'd tried not to meet his gaze, attempted to deny it. "No."

"Cuddy."

"I'm fine. I'm…." She hadn't been able to get the word out again. Tears had pricked at her eyes, and the lie she'd wanted to convince him of had stubbornly balled up in the back of her throat. And then, nothing she could have said had mattered to him.

He'd said, "Come here." But the truth was that he hadn't needed to say anything at all. She would have turned to him anyway.

His hand stroking her hair, he'd told her, "It's okay."

Not trusting herself to speak, she'd only been able to shake her head.

"It _will_ be okay," he'd corrected. "She's going to be fine."

She'd believed him. Out of sheer desperation, she had chosen to accept his words as truth. But the thing about that had been: while Rachel had made it through this crisis, the important thing to take away from all of this had been that there'd been a problem at all.

"If she hadn't gone to you," she'd started to say.

"Well, lucky for us, you gave me the boot last night."

Her fingers had twisted the soft material of his t-shirt in her grip. Mulling over the idea, she'd immediately questioned it. "You're saying… what? It was _fate_ that we got into an argument and you –"

"All right, that's pretty dumb," he'd agreed, lips pressed to her forehead. "But she's okay. You have to focus on that."

No matter how hard she'd wanted to, she hadn't been able to. "We could have killed her," she'd whispered, voice hoarse with tears.

"We didn't." Perhaps wanting to manage some of her fears, he'd added, "And anyone else raising her already would have."

"That's supposed to make me feel better? We haven't killed her yet?"

Maybe he'd realized how ineffective his words had been, because he'd stopped explaining much of anything then. Relying on kisses and fingers stroking her hair and her cheek, he'd completely changed tactics.

And she'd let him.

She'd _cried_, she thought once more with shame. Thankfully, she hadn't sobbed; there had been no wails, no big blubbery tears. But she had done more than enough to make House realize just how upset she was. Then it hadn't mattered how poorly she'd treated him, how angry she'd been. He'd pulled her close, forced her head onto his chest, refused to let her go.

At least, that was how she chose to remember it. She had not reached for him, had not curled into his chest, grabbed onto his t-shirt, and clung to him as though he alone could make her feel better.

God, even to her own ears, it was absurd. Obviously things had _not_ gone the way she wanted to believe they had. And the thing that disturbed her the most about that was it made her question all of her thinking. If she couldn't even accurately and fairly depict the events she clearly remembered, what did that say for her ability to do that overall? What did that mean for her belief that he'd been trying to manipulate her last night?

She knew it didn't bode well for her. If she was this crazy about definitive events, she didn't think she could trust herself with interpreting House's behavior. And part of her couldn't help but consider then that perhaps he hadn't been manipulating her at all.

But instantly, she rejected the idea. Or rather, she questioned it. From what she recalled, it didn't seem like he had had much of an agenda the night before. However, years together had taught her that things were rarely that simple. He hadn't wanted something in that moment – like naked Thursdays or freedom from clinic duty. That didn't mean he didn't have a purpose. They'd played enough games for her to know that he did; he _always_ did. And just because it wasn't visible to her then didn't mean she was wrong. It just meant that he hadn't gotten her to the point where he could demand what he wanted.

There was no serious thought that this might be an exception. If his own motto was that people didn't change, it was wrong to expect it from him in this instance. Maybe she wanted to believe he lacked motive, but that didn't mean she was right.

Sighing, Cuddy thought that this was what was wrong with this relationship. The games were fun until they weren't, until the idea of game playing struck her as the very thing that would eventually tear them apart. She loved him, loved the challenge he presented, but right now she didn't want that; she wanted something… normal, supportive, unquestioning. At times it felt like they got close to that, where maybe they really did have that. But right now… she wasn't sure if they'd ever approached that ideal. If they had, would she really be this unsure and suspicious now? Finishing her shower, she decided that she wouldn't feel that way if they'd had that good of a relationship. Her reaction was proof that something wasn't right, that somehow they'd gotten off track.

Somehow though, when she returned to the bedroom to pick out her clothes, that didn't seem right. Rachel and House were both still sleeping, passed out and curled into one another. They looked sweet together and… in that moment, it seemed more than a little foolish to think that anything between them could jeopardize the love Cuddy shared with her daughter. Maybe more importantly, seeing them together, she thought it was _wrong_ to deny Rachel of that burgeoning relationship.

But _again_, the second Cuddy told herself that, there was another thought. Another voice, just as loud, the antithesis of her split second belief, whispered in her ear, questioned her conclusion. Try as she might to ignore the idea, she couldn't help but ask herself if the image before her was something she could truly believe in. Oh sure, he could peacefully sleep next to her daughter. Did that make him in any way good for her? Did that make him open and loving and affectionate with her? Cuddy had told herself for years that he would eventually get there, that he could be all of those things for Rachel. She had believed it, but now… were they anywhere near that? Had he evolved in those years together? Had he _really_ changed?

She didn't know. This weekend, he had seemed to grow, yes. He had become less reluctant about spending time with Rachel, had taken her outside and had now volunteered to watch her while Cuddy went to work. And then last night, one of the few details she could remember, he'd said that he _loved_ Rachel.

Perhaps it wasn't odd. After all this time of living together, it was probably expected that he should develop some feelings for her daughter that went beyond resentment. Maybe it even made sense that he should recognize that after this weekend, when he'd been forced to spend so much time with Rachel, when they'd all been forced to recognize that men like John, men who would compete for Cuddy's affections, existed.

But…

It all seemed _easy_.

After years of trying to help that relationship along, she found herself watching House make these leaps towards a better bond with Rachel in _one weekend_. It had been a long couple of days, seemingly never ending, but from Friday night to now, it had seemed like years of development had taken place. And there was a chance that that was a natural occurrence, but she wasn't sure if she could believe that. He'd played so many games over the years, was intelligent enough to know that Cuddy was looking for something to change. He could just have easily faked it as he could have meant it.

Without knowing which, she felt lost looking at the sleeping pair. As she dried her hair and got dressed, she was sure of one thing: she couldn't ask for clarification. House was a good liar; he wouldn't crack under her questions, wouldn't reveal much of anything, no matter how hard she tried to learn his tells. He was also the kind of person who would be hurt if his efforts were unappreciated or unrecognized. Again, he would never truly let that show. But there would be times when she'd be able to see doubt, silent accusations that she hadn't believed him. And if his behavior towards Rachel had truly changed, Cuddy was jeopardizing all of that with her suspicions.

No, saying something would only make things worse. She would have to test him somehow, do _something_ that would shock him into revealing the truth – by either openly explaining his behavior or being so surprised that the lie would be obvious to her penetrating gaze.

But what would that be?

What could do that?

Glancing at the clock, she realized she didn't have much time to formulate any sort of plan. She needed to eat breakfast; she would need her strength for the day ahead of her, and she needed to leave. Normally she would have grabbed something from the cafeteria. Today she didn't want to appear anything less than superhuman, always ready, always there to respond to whatever crises the hospital could throw her way.

Rushing to the kitchen, she quickly started a pot of coffee to brew. It was a rare occurrence for her to drink anything stronger than tea. But knowing what she was up against, Cuddy wasn't going to leave herself open to exhaustion.

With robotic precision, she forced herself to gulp down some yogurt topped with fruit and granola. It tasted like gravel and ash on her tongue, the bright acid of the berries failing to sweeten her outlook on this day. The rich aromatics of coffee strongly infused with the air, giving the kitchen that robust, spicy scent of earth she _hated_, but as she dumped some of the brew into a travel mug, she reminded herself that it was necessary. Unappealing, obviously, but necessary.

It was at that moment, when she was screwing the lid onto her mug, that House tiredly trudged into the kitchen.

"You're up," she said surprised. He nodded his head, the exhaustion almost tangible. Leaning in, he kissed her neck, buried his face in her hair. A hand resting on her hip, it was clear that _he_ hadn't taken any offense to last night's proceedings. Or, if he had, his weariness had made it so that temporarily he didn't care. She wasn't sure she could do the same. "Did I wake you?"

Pulling away, he shook his head. "Smelled the coffee," he explained.

"So I _did_ wake you up," she said combatively.

He raised an eyebrow at her tone but apparently decided against saying something. Reaching into the cabinet, he pulled out a mug. Quietly pouring himself a cup of the leftover coffee, he had obviously thought that things would be better if he stayed silent. Given that her first instinct was to pick a fight with him over it, she felt that his decision was a misguided one.

But maybe not, because it made her wonder, as it usually did, why she wanted to argue with him in the first place. She had more than enough on her plate; she had no time for a fight with him, no energy to spare in order to do so.

And yet, she seemed to be brimming with agitation. The need to grab him and… she didn't even know what was so strong it nearly choked her. The emotion overwhelming, she found herself realizing something needed to be done.

In the very least, she understood she could not go to work like this. She needed all of the fighting spirit she had, but if she was so riled up that she couldn't remain rational, there was no point in reserving that energy; it would just make her seem crazy, draconian in the least productive and flattering way possible. She would seem out of control and incapable. Her employees would be looking to her for strength, and right now she was unable to give them that.

She needed to put a stop to that.

Running and yoga were out of the question. Standing in front of her, House was not.

"Have sex with me," she proposed calmly, as though she were asking him to take out the trash.

He looked up in surprise. Swallowing the coffee in his mouth, he casually set his mug down. Finger running along the ceramic rim, he asked, "Do I get to finish my coffee first?"

"Oh by all means," she said sarcastically. "Take your time. Drink your coffee. Eat some breakfast, shower. I'm in no hurry."

"So this is a quickie. It's not –"

"What else would it be, House?"

"Just making sure I understand the rules, that's all."

"Rules?" she asked, narrowing in on that particular word choice. "Because I'm crazy, is that it? And I –"

"No, but if that were my point, you're doing a great job of proving how _wrong_ I am," he said evenly.

She glared at him but forced herself to stay on point. Getting into a fight with him wouldn't solve her problem. Even if it were satisfying temporarily, it wouldn't make her any less cagey.

"Are you interested or not?" she asked, returning them to the original topic of conversation.

"In sex?"

"_Yes_." It took all of her effort not to yell at him.

He didn't say anything at first. As though he were contemplating the offer, he took a moment's pause. Then slowly moving to her, he said, "You never have to ask that question, you know. The answer will always be yes."

He started to cup her cheek, his hand raising for that very purpose. But she was quick to pull away.

"What's wrong?" he asked, noticing her behavior.

She was too busy unzipping her skirt to answer the question. Eventually though, she told him, "I don't want you to be nice."

"Was I?"

She didn't answer the question. "I need it rough." There was no sugarcoating what she wanted, so she didn't bother trying. He would reduce her words to the most perverted interpretation he could think of anyway, and then, at that point, he would make fun of her for even trying to hide what it was that she'd wanted.

"Hmm," House mumbled, boyish grin irrepressible. "So you're in one of those moods, huh?"

"Yes."

"How rough are we talking?"

She raised an eyebrow. All these years they'd been dating, and he was still asking those questions? She thought at this point, he should have instinctively known what her limits were. How many times had she made a point of saying she didn't want bruises, didn't want marks to suggest that anything sorted had happened between them? Enough times, she felt, that he should have understood automatically what she wanted.

About to say that to him, Cuddy noticed at that moment what he was doing. Casually sipping his coffee, he didn't seem confused at _all_. He just looked… pleased with himself.

"You're asking stupid questions so you can finish your drink?" she asked with dismay.

He set the now empty mug down onto the counter. "It worked, so…."

"I should leave you here right now."

"Except you were the one wanting sex, so it would be self-defeating if you –"

"Since we're not having sex right now, is there really any point in me staying?"

"Don't worry. You're going to get laid." There was a bite to the words, reassurance nowhere to be found in his voice.

"Really? Because –"

She was abruptly cut off by his hand covering her mouth. Fingers digging into her cheeks, he hissed, "Shut up." He backed her into the countertop, her legs pressed roughly against the lower cabinets.

With his free hand, he pushed her skirt to the ground, the material pooling on top of her heels. Fingers curling into her underwear, that too quickly was tugged off and forgotten. His body against hers, he told her in a voice that allowed for no disagreement, "Don't think you're not gonna kiss me."

He pulled his hand away from her mouth, giving her enough time to say, "Are you going to make me?"

The answer was obvious: _yes_.

His lips fitted to hers within seconds, there was no chance for her to stop him. But then she didn't want him to. His mouth was harsh. Teeth nipped at her lip, tongue laving over the wound before forcing entry into her mouth. Her nails scraped his scalp as she tangled her fingers in his hair and roughly pulled him closer.

At that point, she had to fight the urge to sigh into him. _This_ was what she'd needed; _this_ alone had the power to make her feel better. The rest of the world suddenly feeling so very far away, the day began to seem like something she could tackle. Which would have made no sense to an outsider, because she should have felt even less in control than she had been. As he grabbed her neck and lightly squeezed, it should have been the kind of act that terrified her, made her feel lost. Instead, she felt as though this were an opportunity to release some of her pent-up anger.

She welcomed it.

And he did too. Hand on her throat, he pulled away. She seemed to rasp with each inhale and exhale, though he wasn't gripping her nearly hard enough to cut off her oxygen.

"Get on the counter."

He let go of her to give her the space to lift herself onto the kitchen counter. Watching as she scooted to the lip of the tile, staring at her spread thighs and the pussy exposed to him, he shoved his pajama pants down over his hips. Exposing himself to her, he reached for his dick and began to stroke himself.

Immediately she shook her head. "Don't," she nearly whined. "Let me do that."

House obviously had no problem with that. He wasn't idiotic enough to think that anything between them had changed; she was still angry and upset. But he wouldn't pass up the opportunity to have sex – especially when she was crazed like this.

Carefully he kicked her fallen clothing out of the way; the last thing they needed was for the mood to be killed, because he'd somehow sullied her clean clothes. Moving between her spread legs, he drew her attention away from his cock long enough to ask, "You gonna leave those on?" He pointed to the heels she was still wearing.

She merely smiled and took hold of his penis. Stroking him, she said knowingly, "You like it when I leave them on."

That might have been true. If he were in his right mind, he definitely would have been able to say one way or another. But as his attention was solely focused on the hand bringing him to hardness, he couldn't think of anything other than that. Maybe a better man could have, but he just watched her, eyes trained on her fist running up and down his shaft. Her thumb every now and then running along the head of his dick, it didn't take him long to become hopelessly entranced by every inch of her.

She was still wearing her sweater, still clothed from the waist up. Her lips slightly reddened and plumped from being kissed, cheeks blushed, and eyes fiery, it was all he needed. She was gorgeous and touching him, wanting _him_, waiting for _his_ cock to fill her body, fuck her to orgasm.

His hands knotted in her hair. Yanking her head back, he kissed her jaw.

"Don't," she said in a rush of air. "You'll ruin my make up."

He pulled his lips away from her skin, albeit reluctantly. "If you don't want me to kiss you, I'd suggest you do something with that cunt of yours."

"I'm really sorry for taking my time. From now on, I'll try to stick your flaccid penis inside of me, and we'll see how much fun that is."

He pushed her back down onto the countertop with so much force the spice rack on the wall rattled. More than likely afraid of bashing her head against the wall, Cuddy turned her head as she went down. Her fingers losing their grip on him, he was able to shove his dick inside of her.

"Oh God!" she cried out, louder than he thought she should have been.

Each word punctuated by a violent thrust into her, he asked, "How many times am I going to have to tell you to _shut up_?"

Not surprisingly his tone and his actions only made her noisier. Grinding her body against his, she was making them louder – his balls slapping against her ass, her panting and whimpering meeting his own moans and harsh breathing.

And she was _slick_, _searing _hot against his cock. As angry as they had been at one another, none of that could touch how good this felt. Burying himself to the hilt over and over, he could think little about what had happened, all of the things that were bothering them. That didn't matter to him then. As he leaned against her, forearm against her throat, his dick changed angles within her. Pounding that tight pussy of hers, he would have thought it was easy to forget all of their problems….

If he'd been thinking about much of anything.

But he wasn't. He was too busy fucking her with all he possessed, relishing the way her heels dug into his back – her legs secure around his body.

The pots and pans in the cabinets rattled loudly. And though Cuddy hadn't wanted him to mess up her make up, there was really no chance of that happening. She was sweating but nowhere nearly as badly as he was, he who was dripping with it, dripping onto her. But she didn't seem to mind that.

In fact, her mind seemed to be on something else altogether.

Her hand tapping the arm he held against her neck, he immediately began to pull away. He hadn't thought he'd been pressing against her too hard; choking her hadn't been his intentions, and she had never expressed how rough she wanted it, but he knew she would not tolerate bruises – not today, _definitely_ not today. And if she was touching him there, he could only believe that he had taken things unintentionally too far.

Yet, when he went to release her, she latched onto him by the wrist. "No," she told him breathlessly. "Harder."

House felt dizzy with exhilaration. For all of their issues, sex had never been one of them. Whatever he had wanted to try, she had been right there with him. Perhaps on occasion he had mentioned a threesome, something she had shot down almost immediately. But the fact was he had never needed any woman other than this one and never would. She was his equal in bed, not only willing to do what he liked but also just as perverted as he was. If she had been accepting of his proclivities, he had been similarly appeasing. No, he thought, for all of their problems – and there were many – sexual compatibility had never been one of those. They had always made sense here.

Grinning he did what she wanted. He could feel her pulse point against his skin. Sweat trapped between them and the shared knowledge that her life was underneath his arm, it made him crazy with desire. An insanity only her body could cure, he ignored his own exhaustion, the ache in his thigh. He thrust into her repeatedly as though none of those things mattered.

Her hips bucked against him with each push into her. In the heat of the moment, one of her heels fell off, but they didn't stop. The hand still on his arm, her grip on him was as tight as she could make it, crushing with its force. The other holding the lip of the countertop, she was doing her best to avoid being pushed head first into the wall. But he doubted she would have actually cared if she _had_ hit the backsplash. She was too far gone for that.

"Oh God," she kept saying. "Harder. More." No matter how hard she wanted to be quiet, it was obvious that she couldn't keep her thoughts to herself. "That feels so good. Keep going."

He appreciated the encouragement. Knowing that she was getting out of this everything she needed made him happy, made him all the more interested in making sure she came like she'd been deprived of sex all weekend long.

Unfortunately they _had_ had sex all weekend long. Well, it wasn't _unfortunate_, but in this particular scenario it made it hard for him to hold off on his own release; they had been together so many times that he was thoroughly exhausted.

But he did his best to ignore the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the feel of his balls tightening with desire, and the leaden sear of need boiling in his stomach. He forced himself to hold out, knowing that she would be even more crazed if he didn't. Picturing _that_ helped him keep his orgasm at bay; thinking how frustrated she would be if he came too soon, he used that possibility to pretend like he wasn't ready for things to end.

Picking up his pace, he worked towards making her come. His free hand groping at her clothed breast, he thrust in and out of her as harshly and quickly as he could.

It didn't take long.

A slew of curse words uncharacteristically crossing her tongue, she screwed her eyes shut. Muscles clenching together in a syrupy squeeze of heat, she was pushed over the edge, coming loudly enough that he had to muffle her cries with his hand. Fingers on her chin for leverage, he gave her a few more thrusts before he was overcome as well. Her pussy wrapped tightly around him, the warmth and wetness was more than he could bear. Rushing to kiss her, he buried his dick in her pussy, his tongue in her mouth, and let go.

She gave him a few minutes to recover, the sweat dripping from him proof enough that he had pushed himself beyond his limits. Knowing that he was exhausted, she didn't want to shove him off of her the second they were done.

The temptation was there, of course. She was hot; after all she was still half-dressed. The countertop was sticking to her ass, and as she felt a good part of the overwhelming tension leave her, she was left with the realization: they were having sex on the kitchen counter.

In theory that sounded great. In reality… it seemed a little seedy this morning. They'd done it there before; they'd done it everywhere in the house. But there was something about it today that struck her as wrong. She had no idea why that was though. At least she had no real explanation until he pulled away from, until he _pulled out_.

The feel of his semen giving her the realization immediately, it permanently killed any belief she might have had that this moment of need was worth it. Because his semen was inside of her. _Sperm_ were inside of her body – when she hadn't taken her birth control.

When she could in theory get pregnant.

Reason suggested that that would probably never happen. She was old; he was older. She'd never been particularly fertile. He might have been, but with his lifestyle, he'd probably killed off every last decent sperm he possessed… which meant that if she _did_ end up pregnant, they'd be having a child with three eyes and God only knew what else. She would have liked to believe that her body would abort any fetus that horrendous, but if it were anything like its father, it would stubbornly fight, in this case for survival. And if today went anything like her weekend had, she would not only get pregnant, she would have twins or quintuplets or something equally difficult and ridiculous.

Her mind racing, there was little thought given to how rational any of this was. Maybe that was because she _knew_ she wasn't being all that logical. She would like to think that that was the reason. But really, that wasn't the case; if she wasn't thinking how realistic any of this was, it was because she was simply too fixated on the possibility of pregnancy to consider anything else.

Disgusted, she hopped down off the counter. Brushing past him for the paper towels, she thought over and over that _this_ was not what she had wanted. She'd wanted sex; she'd wanted to ease some of her frustration. She hadn't intended on _this_. And the fact that they had _stupidly_ opened the door to a whole other set of problems made her feel sick to her stomach.

The reaction didn't go unnoticed.

"You okay?" House asked, his voice breathy.

Her response was simple. "Your _semen_." Paper towel in hand, she hurriedly tried to wipe herself free of his fluids.

He didn't understand. "Yes, that tends to happen when we have sex. I know all those years in college made you forget, but when you have sex with a _man_, semen does tend to be involved."

She was red, almost purple with anger. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why. She'd proposed sex, and now she was mad they'd had it? He didn't get it.

"We had _unprotected_ sex," she explained in frustration.

Still he didn't understand. "So?"

"So I _don't_ want to be pregnant."

House was tempted to point out that those words were at odds with half the things she'd said and done this weekend. She'd been giving indications all weekend that she wouldn't mind another child, that there was some part of her that longed for that baby she'd never had. And in the heat of the moment, triggered by her inaction, he had made the choice for her by throwing the birth control out.

But watching her now, he could see that he had been wrong. Had he reached an incorrect conclusion? He didn't think so. Yet he had been wrong anyway – wrong to push her this hard, this weekend, when she wasn't ready.

That was what it came down to: she wasn't ready.

For any of it.

She wasn't prepared to have another child or to even try for one. She wasn't at the point where she could relinquish some control of the daughter she did have. Even if it strained everyone's relationships in the home, Cuddy just wasn't there yet. She'd done all she could to get _him_ to that point, but that was precisely the problem. She'd focused on him to the extent that she'd clearly never eased her own mind into the inevitability of shared parenthood. And now that he was coming around, she was just starting to realize the enormity of the leap she'd been demanding they make. Now, when the focus was on _her_ to change, she couldn't handle it.

He'd thought that, if he'd just been equally unforgiving of her as she had been of him, she would change. He'd lied, told her all the things she'd needed to hear, specifically that he loved Rachel. He'd believed that saying those things would ignite something inside of Cuddy. But with his mercilessness, he had failed to take into account how she would react to being pushed so hard. Perhaps on any other weekend, she could have appreciated his position. She could have begun the process of changing. With Rachel and work and everything else however, she was _not_ ready to look at her own behavior.

She couldn't.

And by pushing the matter, he'd… _broken_ her.

He realized that she would object to the term he used if he should ever mention it to her. For that matter, House himself had a problem with the choice of words. She was not falling apart, wasn't a crying mess. All told, aside from the way her inner thighs were turning pink from her _scrubbing_, she seemed… okay. There was something about her that seemed unhinged, sure. An energy surrounded her that suggested that at any time, she could turn on him. There was no better word than broken, but even then, he recognized that it colored the situation in a way that didn't reflect reality. And he knew, if he were to act like that word choice was reality, she would kill him.

Trying to keep his tone far from patronizing, he said calmly, "Stop doing that. You're going to hurt yourself."

"Shut up." She stuffed the paper towel into the trashcan with particular vehemence. "I can't believe you did this," she accused.

He was tempted to ask what she was talking about, the fact that he had thrown away her birth control or come inside her. But he resisted the urge. That wouldn't solve anything. In fact most of what he could say wouldn't make things better. Nearly kept speechless, he offered her the one reminder he knew wouldn't get him into trouble.

"Yeah, if only they made a pill you could take after unprotected sex that would –"

"You think _that's_ the tone that's going to help me right now?"

She was right, and he knew it. He hadn't intended to be sarcastic, but the words had come out that way of their own volition. Out of habit, he hadn't controlled himself, and he thought he deserved every bit of dangerous accusation she was hurling in his direction.

"You're right," he said in even tones. "I shouldn't have said that."

Enraged she started to get dressed. And that made _him_ feel ridiculous. They were both half naked in the kitchen _arguing_. With equal haste, he pulled his own pajama pants on.

"I don't need you to be condescending," she told him, as she stepped into her underwear.

"I wasn't trying to be." She looked at him as though she didn't believe him at all. Wiping the sweat off his forehead with his palm, he thought she had every right to be doubtful. "I wasn't," he repeated without sounding too forceful. "I'm just… tired."

"Well, you're not the only one." The words weren't harsh; they were uneasy, as though she didn't know what to do now that he was suddenly backing down.

He nodded his head. "I know. I'm sorry."

She looked like her eyes might pop out of her head; that was how surprised she was. "Seriously?"

Again, he nodded his head. "I've been pushing you too hard, and I shouldn't have done that," he admitted quietly. "This thing with Rachel, a new baby… I shouldn't have done that."

There was a side to him that recognized the danger in stepping back. Seeing the muffled victory in her eyes, he knew that she had taken the wrong message from all of this. Which had been a concern of his as soon as he'd spoken – that she would take this apology to mean that he had changed his mind or worse, that he'd been wrong all along.

It was too late to do anything though.

"So you admit you were wrong?" She was searching for clarification so she could hear him admit it out loud.

"I went about it the wrong way," he said tactfully.

Her brow scrunching together in confusion, she looked at him as though she didn't understand. "I don't – what does that mean?"

"I haven't changed my mind about anything I said," he explained. He would not go so far as to insist that he'd been right, even though he had been. "Everything I said… I still mean it. But you're not ready to hear it, so –"

"So you're not really apologizing for anything other than… what? Bad timing?"

He didn't answer the question, and he wasn't going to. She was looking for a fight, looking for a reason to lash out at him. It didn't matter what he said or did; she was going to find some aspect of his words and deeds that was worth taking issue with. He wasn't sure what was going on with her now; he'd had theories, but at the moment, he was beginning to suspect that he was wrong to think this was _just_ about him pushing her, _just _a reaction to Rachel's health scare. Truthfully, it seemed to him that Cuddy was responding to everything that had headed her way this weekend. It wasn't _one_ singular thing. It was _everything_, and the more he tried to resolve one issue, the harder she would rail against him. Completely entrenched in the problems and perceived threats, she could not see that he was trying to help. And the more he attempted to do that, the worse it would be for all of them.

In other words, he had no choice but to walk away. When she needed him, she would find him. But he couldn't bring her closer before she was ready. He could see that much now.

"I'm gonna go check on Rachel," House said eventually. "You should get going before you're late."

She was stunned by his tactic, so much so that she didn't even have a chance to respond before he'd successfully disappeared into their bedroom. She'd expected him to fight back, to condescendingly explain just how wrong she was to think any of the things he had clearly said. But he hadn't done that at all.

He had walked away.

At first she wanted to follow him, wanted to keep this going. But she didn't even take a step in that direction. Even if she'd been desperate for a fight, he was with Rachel now. Going after him would mean Rachel would hear, and Cuddy didn't want that to happen. Regardless of everything else, keeping all of this from Rachel was of the utmost importance.

Unfortunately Cuddy suspected that he wouldn't leave her daughter's side no matter how long she stuck around. He obviously didn't want to talk about this anymore at the moment, which was why he'd left. So if she'd chased after him, nothing would change.

Out of other options, she had no choice but to start to get ready for work once more. She was shaking as she redressed, smoothed her hair down, wiped at her smeared make up. Whatever stress release she'd been hoping to find… it had been undone by the arguing, by the possibility of pregnancy looming over her head.

Now more tense than ever, she wasn't sure how she would make it through the day. Like a tightly wound spring, she felt as though half the battle today would be to keep herself under control. Anger had its place, and she would use it whenever it was appropriate. But she had to make sure that objectively her behavior was warranted.

Glaring in the direction House had disappeared, she was tempted once more to hunt him down and yell. She couldn't though, and part of her had to wonder what was going on with her if she was this upset.

No, she had never been an unusually sane person. She had looked at House and seen the person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. That didn't seem particularly well adjusted. But her behavior in the last twelve hours went beyond what she was usually like. Even in the past, when she had been similarly stressed, she hadn't responded like this. There'd been that time House had suspected an epidemic in Maternity, and it had taken time to find the source of the outbreak, sure. She'd been angry and pretty crazy then. Yet that paled in comparison to how she was behaving now.

And she didn't understand why. She hated the term, hysterical, knew the word was one men liked to use when women were making a point. But from an outsider's perspective, the word fit her behavior, fit how she felt. She was absolutely unhinged, and there was no denying it.

Someone might suggest that it was because Rachel could have… been seriously hurt, Cuddy finished awkwardly. Yet she knew differently, because this feeling was somehow keeping her from truly considering just how much Rachel had been in danger. There just something about the frantic energy inside of her, the need to lash out, that made quiet contemplation unsuccessful.

As she left the house, she couldn't help but think she was screwed. She needed all of her focus to be on work… and she knew it wouldn't be. It _couldn't_ be. Because when she wasn't thinking what the hell was wrong with her, she was wondering what the hell was wrong with _House_.

Outwardly she did her job. Reassuring clinic patients, giving D.E.A. agents access to her doctors, handling donors - she did all of it with detached precision. If she accomplished her goal of at least appearing sane, it was due to her concentration being elsewhere entirely.

No matter what she did or said, part of her lingered on her fight with House. He'd been so full of conviction the night before, determined to prove that she had missed something when it had come to her own daughter. Words failing him, he'd brought up the idea of a new baby, had blamed _her_ for their family dynamic being as convoluted as it was. And then he'd quickly backed off from that point of view, first when Rachel had been ill and then this morning. He'd said he hadn't changed his mind, but he must have, right? For him to back track so quickly, something must have made him reconsider his position. After all, this was _House_. He didn't walk away from anything. He never admitted when he was wrong, not when it came to personal things anyway. He never backed down, never really apologized – just offered a few curt words that were supposed to mean I'm sorry and a few kind acts to sweeten the deal. In the past twelve hours, he'd apologized more than he'd ever done before in his life.

She had no idea why.

If he hadn't changed his mind, then… what was it? Why alter your tactics after years of doing the same thing over and over? As many times as she tried to answer that question, she couldn't. Because no matter how hard she tried, she just didn't get it.

Once more, she thought she needed some sort of… test. As a doctor, that was what she knew to do; when something was suspected as being wrong, you ran tests; you deduced through fact and information what was going on. You worked through educated hypotheses, and eventually you came to a conclusion that was correct. Right now, she was going through the motions and coming up with nothing. That only meant she needed more information. As unpredictable and insane as House could be, in the end, there was some sort of explanation for his behavior. If she didn't understand now, she simply wasn't in a position to.

But what test would give her any insight into his thought process?

She was half-heartedly contemplating a psych eval when one of the nurses from the maternity ward knocked on her office door. Looking up, Cuddy didn't smile at the older woman. Interruptions almost always meant there was a problem, and the last thing any of them needed was a baby missing or something equally horrendous. But Cuddy waved her in anyway.

"You need something?"

"An adoption just went through about ten minutes ago. Family's about to sign the papers and take the baby home," the other woman explained. "Thought you might like to see, take your mind off what's going on."

Cuddy heard what she was saying. Understanding creating an idea, she couldn't respond at first. She was too busy considering her options.

Going through it in her mind, she thought: House had been waffling back and forth about how he should treat Rachel, what position he should have in her life. Last night he had taken a big step in claiming that he loved her, that there were things _he_ knewthat Cuddy didn't. Reading between the lines, she understood that he'd been urging her to give him greater control. He'd been asking for her to accept him in Rachel's life in a bigger, more important way. And then Cuddy had been the one wrought with indecision.

But as her current conversation was attempting to prove, nothing put things into perspective like legal work. When she'd fostered Rachel, part of her had second-guessed herself. Becoming a mother had seemed daunting, a change so enormous that the very idea of it had terrified her. However, when she'd finally had the paperwork in front of her, Cuddy had been able to recognize just how badly she'd wanted motherhood all along. It had clarified for her everything she'd been unsure about. It had provided for her answers to more questions than she'd known she'd had.

Fighting the urge to smile, she suddenly knew exactly what she wanted to do with House.

_To be Continued (24/25)_


	25. Chapter 25

Author's Notes: And we're at the end of the line. Thank you to NickAmaral, House ever, Nadia, Jane Q. Doe, Aly, LiaHuddy, Boo'sHouse, Huddyphoric, newdayz, Lana, MissBates, houseblue, paroulis, newsession, MARNIC, HuddyGirl, grouchysnarky, fantasiadvd, Alex, red blood, Abby, dmarchl, Temo, GratefulInsomniac, JLCH, IHeartHouseCuddy, and EllieShelly for leaving a review and offering some support while I wrote this last chapter. I really appreciate.

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

**Gift of Screws**  
**Chapter Twenty-Five: Such were for Saints**  
_By Duckie Nicks_

"_Essential oils are wrung:  
The attar from the rose  
Is not expressed by suns alone,  
It is the gift of screws." – Emily Dickinson_

The roads had glazed over once more with a solid sheet of ice. Harsh kernels of frozen snow and the remnants of road salt crackled under her tires as she carefully drove home in the dark. The rigors of work an uneasy ache in the back of her mind, it was the situation with House that seemed to bear down on her oppressively. Her focus remaining on the highway, the paperwork in her briefcase niggled at her attention. For as sure as she was that this was the right way to test him, there remained an inkling of doubt, a question of appropriateness she couldn't entirely ignore.

Sitting in front of her lawyer, she had recognized the dangerous game she was playing.

What if House said yes? What if he said _no_?

Somehow this idea of hers, while guaranteed to work, was beginning to feel like a great way to destroy their relationship.

An hour ago, she had pushed through that hesitation anyway. Her attorney hadn't been an idiot, had noticed that she was taking an unnecessary step here – meaning that she was purposely avoiding the more direct action. Cuddy had told him to do his job. But the closer she got to actually handing the papers to House, the more she felt that this _was_ probably a bad idea.

If he said no, he would have been lying to her this whole time. Every insinuation that he cared about Rachel, that he would eventually care about her, would have been a lie. If he said no, how could they keep living together?

Then again, if he said yes… what would Cuddy do? She hadn't set out this morning hoping to take this step with him. When the weekend had begun, she hadn't thought it would create this _catastrophe_ that ended with her questioning how he felt about her daughter. And if he signed the papers, she was not sure she was prepared to handle that.

How could she be?

He was making these claims – that he knew Rachel better than she did, that he _loved_ her – when three days ago he could hardly bear to spend time with Rachel. Maybe he meant what he said; maybe he _thought_ he meant what he said. But that didn't make it any easier for Cuddy to believe much less accept. And in the end, he could say whatever he wanted, but she needed proof. She needed to _see_ it and _know_ that it wasn't just an act, wasn't just a way to manipulate her.

But not for a second could he know he was being tested. If he knew she was questioning his motives, he would be angry. If he didn't mean it, he would get defensive to protect his lie. If he were earnest, then her doubt would crush him, would probably be the end of them.

And yet, even knowing that, Cuddy understood she had to see this through. Regardless of the consequences, she needed to know how he felt. She would never outright believe what he said, not when it came to something as important as her child; she needed to _see it_.

She had a right to.

In the hours away, this was the conclusion that she had come to: she had a right to want proof, to be suspicious and non-accepting of anything less than concrete. She hadn't been perfect by any means these past twenty-four hours. She had been riled up with fear and frustration, fueled by their never-ending problems. She wasn't so entrenched in her thinking that she couldn't see the mistakes she'd made. But she wasn't wrong to hold House to a higher standard when it came to _her daughter_. Maybe it wasn't fair to be so suspicious; maybe she had wrongly lashed out – okay, she'd _definitely_ been wrong to pick fights with him last night. With Rachel though, Cuddy had a right to be cautious. Her daughter only deserved as much.

Unfortunately, Cuddy wasn't sure House would appreciate that. When all was said and done, after he'd made his feelings clear, she didn't know that he would respect her motivation. Because she'd been so… _insane_, she feared that he would judge her far more harshly for her rational choices.

She supposed she had earned that.

As crazy as she'd been, he had every right to react that way. Hours of work had robbed her of the intense energy that made that fact hard for her to see. Forced outside of the home, she had eventually, _hours_ afterward, been able to focus on something other than House and Rachel. The stress of work had been an outlet, the constant text messages from House about Rachel's health a welcome reassurance. And though Cuddy felt that insanity lurking inside of her body still, she was calmer now. Well, that might have been overstating it; she was _tired_ now. But her exhausted state was working for her.

At least, it had been; the closer she got to home, the less and less true that seemed to be. For a brief moment, it had seemed like she could properly view her behavior. Now though she was beginning to think that what she'd experienced had been nothing more than a slight reprieve from her insanity. Because the longer she drove, the more she began to think that she was making the wrong choice, the more fear began to take over once more.

By the time she pulled into the garage, she felt like she was on the verge of a panic attack. If this went wrong, she would have to deal with why House had lied to her. If it went really badly, there would be no dealing with him on a personal level ever again. And if by chance he had meant everything he'd said… she didn't know what she would do.

All she could think of, when she imagined that scenario, was that she wasn't ready. She didn't want to share Rachel. She didn't want to have him… _interfering_, making himself look like the hero in every scenario, as though she didn't have enough to worry about when it came to her daughter.

In her head, she recognized how childish it sounded, but Cuddy didn't care. Selfishly, immaturely, she worried what his intrusion might do to her relationship with Rachel. The very possibility of it changing terrifying her, Cuddy was horrified that his presence might mean something awful for _her_. She'd fought a long time to have a child, much less love one, and just the idea that House could come in now and render all of that hard work useless… made her angry.

He wouldn't have to do half of what she'd done to have Rachel in her life. But he would reap all of the reward for her hard work. He'd be the one who got to have all the fun with her; the actual parenting would be left to Cuddy, but he'd be the one Rachel would end up preferring. He would never punish her; he would never tell her no. Any time he tried to stand up to her, he would back down and reward her with whatever it was she wanted. Cuddy would do her best to make sure Rachel turned out somewhat decently, but that would breed resentment in her daughter.

And that was what scared her most of all. It wasn't that House would have a much easier time gaining access to Rachel. It wasn't that he would relate to her in a way Cuddy would not. It was that Cuddy would become the harsher parent, the one to push and punish, a singular bulwark against complacency and bad behavior.

In other words, House's increased presence would turn_ her_ into her own _mother_.

Childish or not, Cuddy didn't want _that_.

But if he signed these papers, if he meant what he'd said, she would have to give him a larger role and accept her new one. Or he would lie or refuse to sign or she wouldn't let him, and they would break up.

For a brief moment, she considered forgetting the whole thing altogether. Would it really be that hard to pretend she had never gone to her lawyer's? Would it be that difficult to simply say to House that she'd been upset about Rachel's health and leave it at that? She thought the answer was no. She also thought that it didn't matter; this issue would come up again sooner or later.

Eventually they would have to address these concerns. And the longer they waited, the more fights they would have; the closer Rachel would get to him, the harder it would be to resolve this argument honestly.

No, she thought as she stepped out of the car. It was for the best that they do this now… whatever the consequences might be.

Obviously knowing that didn't make the choice any easier. The second she entered the house, that was perfectly clear.

This wouldn't be easy.

That was never more apparent than when she found both Rachel and House asleep on the couch in the living room. He had an arm behind his head, another clutching a book to his chest. The glasses he'd worn were still on his face, and resting on top of him and the book was Rachel. Cuddy couldn't be sure if he'd willingly let her sleep on his lap or if she'd climbed up after he'd become unconscious. But what was going on before her painted a picture Cuddy couldn't deny.

They were becoming close.

Whether House meant it or not, _Rachel_ was responding to his increased attention. Even though they had a volatile relationship, she was clearly welcoming this change, momentary or not. She was accepting enough that once again, Cuddy questioned her own rightness in the situation.

Really, if he could adjust to Rachel being in his life, if her daughter could embrace him, then what was _her_ problem, Cuddy wondered. Why was she the only one who seemed to have any issue with the way things were going?

Because she was the only true adult, a voice inside whispered. Because she lived with two _children, _neither of whom were capable of or interested in considering the ramifications of their actions. They just did what they wanted, and when it went wrong, they both came to her to fix it. They didn't care enough to avoid problems; they simply believed she would take care of whatever went badly. Knowing that, they had no reason to worry about what they did. And she had every reason.

Bearing that responsibility wasn't easy. But it was obviously all hers, as no one else would ever shoulder some of that burden for her. And it might have felt awful to have to ask the questions that could destroy them, but again, it was her job to do so. No matter how much she cowardly wanted to pretend like none of this was happening, she didn't have that option.

She had to question this; she had to challenge it, because no one else would.

No one else was going to ensure that this was a healthy, meaningful, _honest_ development. As always, she was the only one who would do that. And as hard as it was going to be, once again, Cuddy told herself that it was necessary, that avoiding this issue was impossible. If not today, at _some point_, she would need to know that House actually cared about her daughter, that they could be a family in a way that wasn't built on a lie, that wouldn't hurt her relationship with Rachel. So why not today? The sooner she did this, the better it would be for all of them.

If only that made it _easy_, she thought, setting her briefcase down next to the couch. As she stood back up, she taken by surprise.

Rachel's eyes were wide open and looking at her.

Smiling, Cuddy said quietly, "You're awake." Rachel nodded her head enthusiastically. "I thought you were sleeping. It's past your bedtime."

"I'm not tired." Unconcerned that House was asleep, she was louder than she needed to be.

"Shh." Cuddy held a finger up to her lips. "House is sleeping, so we need to be quiet, so we don't wake him up."

At that point though, Rachel was no longer listening. Shifting on top of him, she was too busy trying to climb off of him. Instantly Cuddy could see the potential danger; one wrong move, and House could have been woken with Rachel's hands, elbows, or knees digging into his thigh.

Quickly Cuddy reached for Rachel and carefully picked her up. "I got you," she said in soft tones. "Let's try not to kill House tonight."

Rachel relaxed in her arms almost immediately. Although she'd claimed not to be tired, she was inadvertently making it obvious that the late hour was wearing on her. Her head on Cuddy's shoulder within seconds, she was clearly ready for bed. Nevertheless there was just a touch of energy left in her, enough fight that she would not go to sleep easily.

However, Cuddy thought that might have been for the best. Having not had much of an opportunity to talk to her at all, Cuddy wasn't ready to put her to bed right away. She would have, had it been necessary, but Rachel didn't seem cranky enough to be truly exhausted.

"How about you help Mommy change?" Cuddy suggested. "You can tell me what you did today."

Rachel lifted her head. As they disappeared down the hallway, she started to talk. "We watched movies, and I got to eat a cookie cause I taked my medicine, and I slept a lot."

"I'm assuming he gave you more than cookies."

She frowned as Cuddy dumped her onto the bed. "He made me eat vegetables."

"Oh you poor baby," she said lightly, her fingertips tickling Rachel so she laughed. Kissing her cheeks, she told her, "Not _vegetables_."

Giggling Rachel rolled away. "Mommy, stop. No more tickles."

"All right. I'll stop." Hand on her back, Cuddy patted her daughter softly. "Do you feel better today?" Rachel nodded her head slowly. "You get sick at all?"

Her cheeks turned red. Her body shifting on the bed, she was obviously uncomfortable – _ashamed_ to answer the question. "Twice," she said eventually. "I throwed up."

Cuddy leaned down and kissed her once more. She wasn't surprised that Rachel had gotten sick; glucagon could have the side effect of vomiting, and Rachel was so small that any major shift in her glucose levels could leave her reeling. The problem with that was not that it came as a surprise but that any denial of nutrition could easily send her back into a hypoglycemic state.

"House check your blood sugar?"

"Uh huh."

"Good. How's your tummy feel now?"

Rachel shrugged. "Okay." The way she said it, it sounded like it didn't matter to her. Not out of a lack of concern, the words had been uttered that way, because she knew, even at her young age, that this problem would never go away. There would always be needles, always be pills and emergencies and late nights and bad days that followed.

For Cuddy, that fact was never far from her mind. For a five year old, it must have been the kind of burden that made the world seem like it was ending.

Climbing onto the bed, Cuddy laid down next to her daughter. Close to her, Cuddy told her honestly, "I'm sorry, Rachel. I know it's been a bad weekend." Her fingers tucking a stray lock of hair behind Rachel's ear, she added, "I promise you we'll do something fun soon."

Whether Rachel believed her or not was hard to say. Cuddy would have liked to be convincing, but she understood that that was difficult considering they both knew things would never be permanently _better_.

If that thought was on Rachel's mind though, she never let on. Instead, she asked sweetly, "Do I have to go to school tomorrow?"

"I don't know. Maybe," Cuddy said diplomatically. "It depends on how you feel and if there's school to go to. I think you might have a snow day." Rachel's lips split into a wide grin. "_Maybe_," Cuddy repeated. "Don't count on it."

"Then I don't think I feel good. I might throw up again."

"We'll see about that." Cuddy started to pull away. "I'm going to get changed."

As she sat up though, Rachel's eyes caught sight of the pearl necklace swaying lightly around her neck. "They look like gum balls," she pointed out.

"Oh?" Cuddy didn't know what she was talking about at first. Her gaze following the line of Rachel's sight, it took her a moment to figure out what Rachel meant.

Fingering the necklace, Cuddy agreed. "They kind of do. Although you wouldn't want to try eating these," she said standing up. "They'd break your teeth."

"Can I play with them?"

Cuddy reluctantly took off the necklace and handed it to her. "Be careful with them. That belonged to your great grandmother."

"What does that –"

"Nana's mother. My grandmother," she explained, heading to her dresser to take off her earrings. "Shocking though it may be, Nana was _not_ hatched from an egg and raised by wolves."

She paused on the suit button she had in her grasp. Looking back at Rachel, she could see that her daughter was only partly paying attention; she was too busy rubbing the pearls between her palms to truly listen. But just on the chance that Rachel had picked up what she'd said, Cuddy immediately added, "Don't repeat that to her."

Rachel didn't say anything. The subtle clank of pearls and the rustle of Cuddy changing were the only sounds to be heard – at least until Rachel exclaimed a few minutes later, "Ow!"

Finishing pulling on her pajama pants, Cuddy turned around just in time to see the pearl necklace winding down from being swung. The angry red mark on Rachel's hand painted a clear picture. She'd been twirling the necklace violently and gotten hit on the hand.

"What did I just tell you?" Cuddy went back to the bed and carefully pried the pearls from Rachel's fist. "If you can't be gentle, you can't play with it."

"My hand," Rachel said sadly.

Cuddy ran her fingers over Rachel's red knuckles. "I think you'll be okay."

"It stings."

She leaned down and kissed the back of Rachel's hand a few times. "Is that a little better?" Rachel shook her head, so Cuddy pressed a few more kissed into the soft flesh. "Now?"

"A little bit."

"Good."

She let go of Rachel and quickly placed the pearl necklace on her dresser. Turning back to her daughter, Cuddy motioned for her to get up. "All right, monkey. I think it's time for you to go to bed."

She expected resistance. Though there was no way Rachel could win this battle, Cuddy had anticipated a fight anyway. But tonight, Rachel sat up without hesitation. Tiredly rubbing at her eyes, she let Cuddy pick her up.

"Are you sleepy?"

"Some."

"House give you a bath today?" Rachel nodded her head. "Did you brush your teeth?" There was another nod. And since she was already in her pajamas, Cuddy was relieved that she could just put her daughter in bed without any stops along the way. It made things simpler, meant that Cuddy herself would be able to sleep sooner than later.

Well, at least that was what it meant usually. Tonight she wasn't so sure that was the case. She still had to discuss things with House. So perhaps it was smarter to say that being able to put Rachel into bed straight away meant Cuddy could save her energy for the fight she knew would happen later. But in the end, even _that_ turned out to be false.

As she tucked Rachel into her bed, Rachel admitted, "I didn't eat dinner."

Cuddy sat back on the mattress unsure of how to proceed. "Tonight or –"

"At the party."

Given how low Rachel's blood sugar had been, the information was only surprising in that it was being admitted to at all. In Cuddy's mind, the truth was something she would have to force from her daughter with bribes and threats. And the thing about that was she hadn't even considered having this conversation yet. Selfishly enough, Cuddy had only focused on her situation with House. She hadn't thought about her daughter at all.

Disgust with herself didn't even begin to cover it. The way she felt, there were no words for the amount of self-loathing in Cuddy at that moment. Although there were times when Rachel took a back seat to other things in Cuddy's life out of necessity, in this case… it was inexcusable. Because it was one thing to be busy with work, to be so consumed with saving a life that a babysitter needed to be called; it was another to barely think about her daughter within twenty-four hours of a medical emergency.

It was unforgivable.

As understandable as it was for Cuddy to be obsessed with House's behavior, she knew she should have resisted that temptation. Work and him and all the other problems she'd faced were nothing compared to her daughter. She should have never even _seemed _to have forgotten that. But after each and every text House had sent her way that day, reassuring her that everything was fine, she had believed him; she had refocused her attention on other things.

And she should _not_ have done that.

At that moment, there didn't seem to be enough space within her for the guilt she felt. As though her organs and bones were being crushed by shame, she found herself frozen to respond. She had screwed up so badly, let down her daughter in ways Rachel didn't understand but surely would if Cuddy kept behaving like this.

"Are you mad?" Rachel asked, obviously scared by her mother's silence.

That snapped Cuddy out of her daze. "What? No." She shook her head. "Of course not. Not at all." Scooting up on the bed, she laid her head down on the pillow. Face to face with Rachel, she said carefully, "I'm just… curious about what happened. Because I know you're a smart little girl and you wouldn't do that without a reason."

Rachel fidgeted, twisted the sheets in her tiny hands. "I don't wanna say."

"I know. I know," Cuddy said, smoothing her daughter's hair back. "I'm not mad. I promise you: no matter what happened, I'm not going to get mad. I just want to know the truth. Okay?"

Rachel wasn't sure if she should believe Mommy. Sometimes when adults said they wouldn't get mad, they did anyway. Maybe Mommy wouldn't be angry, but there was a good chance she _would_, and Rachel didn't want to get in trouble. But not telling the truth wasn't an option, because Mommy would get mad if she lied, and she would get mad if she said she didn't say anything, and Rachel thought at that moment that there seemed to be an awful lot that made adults unhappy. No matter what, Mommy wouldn't be pleased, and Rachel _really_ didn't want to say anything.

She didn't want to talk about what happened. She'd already done that once today, when stupid, stinky House had forced it from her. She didn't want to repeat what had happened, how they'd locked her in the closet and called her fat and ugly and how she hadn't been able to listen to it, _again_. She didn't want to cry no more, didn't want to talk about it if Mommy was just gonna insist that those poopy faces were _friends_ cause they wasn't.

But then maybe Mommy _wouldn't_ say that. Maybe if Rachel told her the truth, she would realize just how annoying and dumb those guys were. _Maybe_ Mommy wouldn't ever make her play with them again!

If that wasn't a reason to talk, Rachel wasn't sure what was.

"They locked me in the closet," she said angrily. "They –"

"Who are 'they,' Rachel?"

She whined loudly in frustration. Mommy instantly tried to shush her, but Rachel batted her hands away. She didn't want to be shushed; she wanted to tell the truth and then never talk about it again.

"Those stupid guys!" she snapped. "All dem. Nevaeh and George and all of them!"

"The kids at the party last night."

"_Yes_. They locked me in a closet."

Mommy looked confused. "Why would they do that? Are you sure they didn't accidentally –"

"I'm _not_ lying," Rachel said, pouting.

"No, I'm not saying you are. I just don't understand why –"

"Because they _hate_ me. That's why. They say it all the time. They _hate me_. Cause they think I'm fat and ugly and stupid and a baby, and they hid my dinner, and they hate me. And I _hate them_."

Mommy didn't say anything at first. Rachel thought that was probably a good thing. Cause if she said something right away, it usually meant that she thought Rachel was wrong or had lied or something like that. But if she was quiet, then she was listening, and that was good, Rachel thought.

When she did speak, it was clear Mommy did believe her. Because she didn't accuse her of lying or accidentally getting locked in the closet or anything along those lines. She just asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

But that was almost as bad as not believing her, cause Rachel_ had _tried to tell her. "I _did_. You was _busy_."

Cuddy did her best to recall the night before and whether that had happened. She didn't think her daughter was lying, but she wanted to make sure that Rachel actually _had_ tried to approach her.

Try as she might though, she couldn't think of anything. Cuddy hadn't seen Rachel at all after dinner, so if it had happened at all, it would have been before. There'd been the incident _at_ dinner, of course, but Rachel hadn't been interested in the truth then, because she'd said she'd eaten her dinner. She'd lied; she hadn't given any indication that there'd been something she'd wanted to discuss.

And then Cuddy remembered: there'd been a moment when Rachel had tugged on her leg, had tried to get her attention. She'd tried to say something while Cuddy had been talking to someone else….

Cuddy hadn't listened.

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. I am. I was just –"

She cut herself off before she could finish the sentence. How was she going to finish it that made her inattendence okay? "I was just talking to someone else"? "I was too busy with work to listen"? No matter how she worded it, it sounded awful even in her own head. And that was perfectly understandable, because it _was_ awful.

She'd been focused on work while her daughter had been tormented. Right? That was what had happened. Rachel had been locked in a closet, called all those names…. The sheer level of hatred those children seemed to have for her disturbed Cuddy, disgusted her.

Part of her wanted to believe that Rachel was exaggerating or that this was an isolated incident. But how could it be? If those children had been willing to behave like that in a house swarming with adults, what would they do, what had they done, when adults hadn't been around?

And while they'd been locking her daughter in the closet, what had Cuddy been doing? She'd been too busy talking to someone whose name she couldn't even remember a day after the fact.

Even if that hadn't occurred, Cuddy suddenly remembered all the attempts Rachel had made prior to the party to get out of going. She'd said… many, many things that upon reflection Cuddy couldn't believe she'd ignored her up until this point. No, she knew then; this was not an isolated moment, a rare fight between friends. This had been happening for a while if Rachel had been that desperate to avoid being anywhere near those children.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated, hugging Rachel close to her. "That shouldn't have happened to you."

Her voice mumbled, Rachel said, "I don't wanna be their friend."

"You don't have to be. I promise you." Cuddy patted Rachel on the back. "I'm sorry you couldn't tell anyone. I –"

"I told House," Rachel interrupted in a way that was somehow equally conversational as it was pointedly aimed at her.

Cuddy didn't consider Rachel's tone or what it might have meant. She simply heard the words and reacted.

Before she could stifle the question, she asked, "Why would you tell _him_?"

Instantly the mood in the room shifted. Understanding and sympathy were replaced with defensiveness and coolness. Where Rachel had been willing to express herself before, now she looked up at Cuddy as though there was nothing left to say. Like she'd been slapped in the face, Rachel seemed embarrassed, upset, sure that she had done something wrong.

Cuddy could see it in her features. The question had made Rachel think she'd misbehaved by telling House what had happened. There was no denying it – especially when Rachel pulled away and asked quietly, "Was I not supposed to?"

The question put everything into perspective.

Cuddy hadn't wanted to _share_ her daughter with House. She'd worried, as she still did, that, if that were to happen, she would end up being the marginalized one, the parent with little affection from her child. Fearful of that, she'd done her best to protect that relationship from House. Even as she'd told him he needed to try harder, she had walled off many of the responsibilities he might have otherwise shouldered. She'd purposely, if only subconsciously, kept the distinction between her and him, so that he could never encroach upon her territory.

She didn't want to believe that was what she'd been doing; it was odd and difficult to reflect on her behavior the last few years and think that she'd been doing that. Not a particularly unaware person, Cuddy thought it perplexing that she could have been so ignorant to something that obvious.

But clearly, she hadn't known.

Or if she could have known, she had chosen not to see the truth.

Now though the truth was apparent to the point that it felt like a physical presence weighing on her mind. She'd been pushing House away.

Perhaps she could accept that on its own terms. Certainly, he had brought it up to her before, and she had ignored his complaints time and time again. But she could no longer ignore it because of Rachel.

Because Rachel was starting to think that she was doing something wrong by getting closer to him. She felt _guilty_ for confiding in him. She was acting as though she'd been _bad_.

And as terrified as Cuddy was to share her with House, she knew:

She couldn't let Rachel feel that way.

She couldn't harm her child to keep things as they were.

She couldn't refuse change, because to do so would be to teach her daughter to be ashamed of getting close to new people.

She couldn't continue as she was, because it was wrong.

Rachel's guilt now mirrored in her own eyes, Cuddy swallowed hard. Her voice shaky, she tentatively said, "No. You didn't do anything wrong." She shook her head, emphasizing a point that made her anxious to even say. "I'm just…."

What she wanted to tell her was she was sorry for not being the person Rachel could talk to. But midway through the thought, Cuddy reconsidered. If – and it was an _if_ still – House was going to play a larger part in Rachel's life, it couldn't seem like he was a back up for Cuddy. It couldn't be that he was only good to confide in when there was no one else to talk to. That would be a disservice to all of them. Again, it was still unknown how the night would go. If he'd been faking it this whole time, Cuddy would… have no choice but to cut him out. If he'd been manipulating her, that was it. But if he could demonstrate that he'd behaved with honest intentions, she would have to change some of her own patterns. And that had to start now. Because she wouldn't be able to fix the problem if she spent her time now teaching her daughter that House was either bad or barely acceptable for her.

"Surprised," she finally finished, forcing herself to ignore whatever doubt she had about House for now. "I didn't think you liked him very much."

Rachel relaxed on the bed. The guilt in her eyes slowly melting away, she shrugged after a moment. "He made me eat _carrots_. In _soup_."

"Hmm," Cuddy murmured in understanding. "But they're good for you."

"They was yucky and hot and _mushy_."

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad."

"Uh huh. It _was_. And I don't want no more of it."

"_Any_ more," Cuddy lightly corrected. "I'm sure House just wanted to get rid of the soup, but I will let him know that you don't want any tomorrow."

Rachel looked at her carefully. "He's gonna stay wif me tomorrow?"

That hadn't been what Cuddy meant, not exactly. She hadn't thought at all about what would happen tomorrow. There was still so much left to do tonight that the idea of the sun coming up the next morning was far beyond Cuddy's comprehension at the moment.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "Maybe. It depends on –"

"I don't want him."

"Why not?" Tiredly she wondered if this was going to lead to further discussion about how House had made Rachel eat carrots.

But that wasn't what Rachel said in response – thankfully.

"Cause I don't wanna," she whined. "I want you."

Once again Cuddy was faced with still _more_ proof that she had been wrong all along. She'd been convinced that House would be the one Rachel wanted to spend time with, because he let her do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. But maybe... that wasn't true.

Thinking about it now, Cuddy supposed it was idiotic to believe that a few days of fun could undo or match five _years_ of nothing but love. To think that her relationship with Rachel would suffer because of House's involvement… nothing seemed further from the truth at that moment.

A doubtful part of her wasn't sure it was wise to throw herself head long into this realization. She could still end up being right in the end; maybe things didn't change after a few days. But after a couple years? Dynamics could shift, sure. If House kept up this behavior, if he further ingratiated himself into Rachel's life, why wouldn't he quickly become the favorite?

Again, Cuddy didn't deny the childishness in these thoughts. She was well aware of the immaturity, of the egotism necessary for these kinds of ideas to thrive within her mind. But there was a difference between recognizing that and changing, between understanding and acting.

It didn't matter that she could see how infantile her thoughts were. At the end of the day, that didn't reassure her. That didn't make her think there was no problem here. And without that security, it was impossible to dismiss those ideas outright.

All of that said, she was not so entrenched in her beliefs that she would seek comfort from her daughter. She would not needle proclamations from Rachel or ask for reassurance. She would simply respond as she might have if none of these thoughts had ever passed through her mind.

"Things have been a little insane lately, huh?" Cuddy said calmly. Rachel nodded her head, confirming what was apparent to anyone with eyes. "I know. And we haven't spent much time together because of work and… everything else. It's been a busy weekend. But being with House hasn't been so bad, has it?"

Rachel thought about the question for a moment. Had it been bad to spend time with House? No… and yes. He'd bought her Froggie. That was nice. She liked Froggie. And he'd let her play in the snow. But they hadn't made a snowman. That wasn't as much fun. He made eggs that were yummy and let her eat two of the cookies she'd made with Mommy a couple days ago, and she got to watch all the movies she wanted, and that was fun. But… he was weird.

He talked about stuff she didn't understand, used words she didn't know. Sometimes Rachel was sure he was making fun of Mommy, but she didn't really know, because she didn't understand what it meant to say half the things he said. She was sure though that it was something dirty or bad or something she wasn't meant to hear. She didn't care really. It was just annoying that she didn't know what he was talking about.

And while he was nice, he kind of wasn't. He gave her toys and made her food, but he didn't hug her when she throwed up. He wiped her face, gave her medicine and a drink of water, but he didn't make her feel better. If Mommy had been here, she wouldn't have done that. She'd have hugged her and kissed her and made her feel better. She wouldn't have let go until Rachel had told her that she felt okay.

Even if House had done those things though, it wouldn't have mattered. Rachel was slowly warming up to him, but he wasn't Mommy. He would never be Mommy. He would always make weird jokes and say stupid things and be all House-y with his House-iness. He was fine, but he wasn't the same thing. He didn't even know how to read right! He was okay, but he still had a lot of work to do before he would even come close.

"I want you," Rachel whined, reaching for her.

Cuddy welcomed her with open arms. "I missed you too," she said, hugging Rachel close.

"So you'll stay home with me tomorrow?"

"Maybe," she conceded cautiously. "It depends on how you feel."

"Please?"

"I'm not saying no, monkey." She buried her face into Rachel's dark locks and kissed her. "It just depends on a bunch of different things."

It didn't. There were _really_ only two variables to take into consideration: Could Rachel go to school? Would House stay at home with her if not? If they were still together in the morning and he was willing and Rachel still felt sick, Cuddy would not take the day off.

Last night, she'd been afraid for Rachel, of the possibility of losing her. Because of that, Cuddy had been controlling, uninterested in letting go of Rachel even for a second. But House had been right (of course). Work would not allow her to take a step away right now. And ultimately… Cuddy didn't want to step back. She'd spent the better part of her life cultivating her career. She was good at it, and she loved doing what she did, though this weekend might have been an exception to that. As much as she wanted to be with Rachel, Cuddy wasn't prepared to do it at the expense of her job. She especially wasn't ready to do that when he was waiting in the wings to help her without being asked. If they made it through the night and he didn't resent her, she would rely on him again in the morning if necessary.

However, Cuddy would _not_ tell Rachel that. There was just no way she would understand, and any explanation would only amplify any hurt she felt. Cuddy hated feeling as though she were lying to her daughter, as though Rachel was being led on. But what else could Cuddy do? Telling her the truth wasn't an option; even if it was, there was no good way to say it. Of course, if something happened with House, well _obviously_, Cuddy would have no choice but to make the necessary sacrifice for her child. In that event, it would be stupid to tell Rachel now that someone else would watch her. And conversely, if things were okay tomorrow, there was no reason to upset Rachel with the truth right this second. She would figure it out soon enough in that case.

Knowing the misdirection was better than the truth, Cuddy attempted to refocus her daughter's attention. "But you know what? I'm here right now. I'm all yours."

"But I'm sleepy."

"That's okay. I'll stay with you until you fall asleep. All right?"

Rachel shuffled on the bed as though she were equal parts uncomfortable and sleepy, fussiness starting to settle in. The temptation was there to soothe her, but Cuddy knew that tactic would backfire; when Rachel was like this, it was best to let her squirm about and whine until exhaustion silenced her on its own.

Thankfully that didn't take long.

But when she'd finally relaxed underneath the covers, she didn't fall asleep immediately as Cuddy would have thought. She was close obviously, heavy eyelids blinking at slow intervals. And yet… there was something on her mind that seemed to prevent sleep from coming. No matter how close she was to nodding off, each time, she would snap out of it.

After watching it happen several times, Cuddy quietly asked, "What's wrong, honey?"

Rachel shook her head sleepily. "Nothing."

"Are you sure about that?" Cuddy made sure to ask the question with a neutral tone. The last thing she needed was for Rachel to think that she was being accused of lying. "You seem a little upset."

"_No_. I'm not."

"Okay," Cuddy told her in a gentle voice.

But in backing down, she inadvertently gave Rachel all the room she needed to speak up. Within seconds, she was confessing, "I don't want to be their friend."

"You don't have to be. I promise. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you. You don't need to be around –"

"They said I was fat." Her eyes bright and shiny, she no longer seemed tired. Weariness was apparent, but that just reinforced the overall impression she gave Cuddy: she'd been hurt by these children; they'd tormented her, their words continuing to resonate within.

"Don't listen to them," Cuddy stressed. "They are just… idiots who don't know what they are talking about."

Rachel frowned. "That's what House said."

Minutes ago, Cuddy would have felt a pang at hearing those words. Knowing that Rachel had gone to House, that he had heard about this first… it would have been devastating. And maybe that impulse hadn't disappeared completely, but Cuddy was able to push past it.

"Well, he's right," she said without hesitation. "They are just silly _little_ kids, and if they can't see how beautiful and smart and _wonderful_ you are, then –"

"They said you didn't like me cause I wasn't –"

"Rachel," Cuddy interrupted instantly. "I _love_ you."

"They said you was pretty and I fat, and you didn't like me cause of dat."

"They're wrong." She said it with conviction, the sheer force of it making Rachel's eyes wide with surprise. Reaching over, Cuddy stroked Rachel's cheek. "Honey, you're my daughter. There is absolutely nothing you can do that would make me not like you. Nothing. I love you no matter what. Anyone who says otherwise is an idiot."

Cuddy knew she couldn't stop there. It was one thing to reiterate just how much Rachel was loved. It was an important point to make. _But_ ending her argument there might give Rachel the impression that Cuddy was saying she loved her _even though_ she was fat. And that was not what Cuddy wanted her daughter to take away from this.

Continuing she said, "You're not _fat_. You're _five_. Your body is growing and changing, and there's nothing wrong with that." Rachel didn't seem convinced. "You are a beautiful little girl. You have the prettiest blue eyes and the cutest little nose and soft cheeks." Cuddy kissed her hair. "And even if you had _none_ of those things," she whispered. "I would still love you."

"Okay," Rachel said, perhaps feeling slightly mollified.

"Listen to me. I don't want you to worry about what those kids said. They're just looking for someone to pick on," she explained. "It doesn't matter what you look like or how smart you are or how funny or nice. They are sad children who aren't happy unless they can make other people miserable."

"I guess."

"There will always be people like that," Cuddy said darkly. The words already said once this weekend, she hated that she was now echoing them again. And part of her could only think that, if she had paid more attention to Rachel, the sentiment wouldn't have needed expressing this second time. "Do you remember what I told you while we were making cookies?"

Rachel's nose scrunched up as she tried to remember. "Um… don't eat the cookie dough?"

"Well, that too."

She thought some more. "I don't remember."

Cuddy nodded her head in understanding. "I said to you, there will always be people who don't like you – or me or House or whoever – for whatever reason. You can't pay attention to them. There are plenty of kids out there who would love to be your friend. You don't need to have friends who are mean to you. _Ever_. And you shouldn't listen to what anyone –"

"So I don't have to listen to you when you say eat my carrots," Rachel interrupted in a voice that was deliberately sweet.

There was a hopeful quality to the words, as though she wanted to believe ignoring her mother could be allowed based on what Cuddy was saying. It wasn't.

"If I tell you to eat your vegetables, you need to listen to me," Cuddy said calmly. "I'm your mommy. You're supposed to listen to me."

"Do you always listen to your Mommy?"

It was not a curious question. One that was purposely aimed her way, it was asked to point out her hypocrisy.

"No," she admitted uncomfortably. "But Nana isn't like most mothers. Nana is... a handful." That was the nice way of describing Arlene, the words Cuddy usually used to describe her mother. "I would listen to her if she..." No, Cuddy thought; she didn't want to finish that thought. Nothing good could come from doing so. Somehow, uttering those words would inevitably mean her mother would_ hear_ them. _Somehow _she would know what Cuddy had said, and she wanted to avoid that. "You have to listen to me, Rachel," Cuddy finished.

"Okay… but at some point, I don't have to –"

"You're being very naughty, aren't you?" she said with a smile. Fingers on her daughter's stomach, she started to tickle her. Rachel squealed and squirmed, legs kicking in the air as she shrieked with laughter.

Cuddy didn't tickle her for long. The point was to help Rachel wind down and go to sleep – not egg her on. But if Cuddy had been concerned that her daughter would be livened up by her actions, she was wrong. As Rachel started to calm down, her giggles tapering off, it was clear that the last reserves of energy inside of her had been used.

Beginning to fall asleep, she didn't respond when Cuddy said, "I love you so much." The little girl unconscious within minutes, it wasn't even clear that she had heard her mother.

But Cuddy hoped that the sentiment was one Rachel understood was the truth. It bothered Cuddy to think that a group of children could make Rachel think differently about or at least question all of the love surrounding her.

Then again, as she stood up to leave, Cuddy couldn't help but wonder if she deserved the doubt. She loved Rachel; it was obvious to her that she did. But… how many nights had Cuddy depended on Marina when she was still alive? How many little events had she missed over the years? How many times had she been working when Rachel had needed her?

Cuddy couldn't even estimate the number there were so many instances. And part of her was okay with that. She didn't work, because she _had_ to. Certainly the income helped, but she did her job, because she loved doing it. Maybe that wasn't the case _right now_, but once all of this garbage with the D.E.A. passed, she would remember the reasons she kept doing this thankless task years after she'd first taken the job. For that reason, she didn't _regret_ all those moments when someone else had had to watch Rachel. She wouldn't have done anything differently, not really.

Of course there was guilt; there was always guilt. But it had always been the right decision for her, to continue working as she had before she'd had Rachel.

After all was said and done, Cuddy didn't even doubt that truth now. It was the right choice for all of them. But it bothered her to think that someone else might use Cuddy's choices against Rachel, that someone – a child no less – would wield Cuddy's career as a weapon against a five year old. And knowing that she would in all likelihood go into work tomorrow, she regretted her choice to tell Rachel that she would stay with her tomorrow if that were necessary. Because if Rachel weren't feeling well and Cuddy left her with House, it might seem to Rachel like a confirmation of everything the other children had told her.

But... what could she do about that now? Wake her daughter up and tell her that she'd lied? Not go into work when the hospital needed her? She knew she couldn't do any of that. For better or worse, she was stuck on this path now; there was no turning back.

That must have been the underlying theme for all of her choices, she thought bleakly. No matter what she did today, every decision seemed to be wrought with a certain amount of... conclusion. As though once chosen, her option killed all other avenues of behavior, she was stuck with a singular path the second she took the first step. She supposed she could back out of handing House the papers. She'd had her lawyer draft them; she wasn't required to use them. And yet she knew that wasn't really the case. Because if she kept the documents to herself, House would find them and confront her, or she would eventually change her mind and hand them to him anyway. Either way, it didn't seem like she could back out of what she'd started.

Part of her wished she could. As she tentatively took steps towards House, a voice inside of her whispered that there was always a way out; he was tired, wouldn't look through her briefcase tonight; she could shred the papers before he saw them; she could lock the papers away in a desk drawer somewhere until she was sure this was what she wanted. She had gone to her lawyer ignorant of the extent to which Rachel would be affected.

Of course, Cuddy had known that Rachel would be impacted one way or another. But she hadn't considered that, as she'd sat in that lawyer's office, her daughter was confessing things to House; she hadn't thought that there'd been much of a relationship there, as evidenced by all of the fights and times Rachel had proclaimed to hate him. She hadn't realized… just how complicated all of this would be. She hadn't seen how reckless she was being, and now it felt like she was walking to her doom by seeing this through.

Again though, she knew there was no turning back. She had set this in motion. Though not well thought out, it was something she couldn't ignore. She had to finish what she'd started. Without answers, she would just keep returning to this point. She would keep having these fights with House; he wouldn't let the matter drop no matter how much he wanted. He'd found a point to make and would make it over and over, even if secretly he knew he shouldn't. And Rachel would suffer in the meantime, unsure if she should trust House, unsure if she should dislike him.

Cuddy didn't want _that_ for her daughter.

That was what she told her herself, as she stepped into the living room once more. Instantly confronted with House's gaze on her, she immediately felt the thought slip from her mind.

He'd woken up at some point. She could tell that much. Glasses and book gone, he'd moved, changed directions on the sofa. Now he could see her as she walked into the room – not that it mattered.

They said nothing. They looked at one another, their expressions filled with all of the things they needed to talk about. But she kept silent and so did he. As though neither were prepared for the conversation they would eventually have, they gazed at one another but didn't speak.

Yet things were said. One of his arms outstretching to his side, he was inviting her to join him. He didn't need to actually ask her. Regardless of where they were personally, she welcomed the offer immediately. They would have to talk eventually, but right now, she wanted nothing more than to curl up with him. She needed it.

Closing the distance between them, she didn't ask if he was sure that he was okay with this. They had had a lot of miscommunication this weekend, but she hadn't misread his behavior; he _was_ allowing her to lie down with him. Never mind that, at this point, she would have found herself there anyway. Even if he hadn't extended the invitation, she would have wanted to be in his arms. But that desire didn't have her hallucinating what wasn't here.

His hands on her sides, he helped guide her onto the couch, eased her down on top of him. She hadn't imagined _that_. His legs shifting so she could rest without hurting him, she hadn't deluded that either. And when she rested her head on his chest, the comfort it provided her was undoubtedly real. He was warm against her and soft, his arms wrapping around her as though they hadn't spent the last twenty-four hours fighting.

Her eyes fluttered shut. She stilled. She looked, in his opinion, calmer than she had all weekend long – a realization that sent another wave of guilt fluttering through his stomach.

He had been terrible this weekend. That was what he'd thought all day. He had helped the world push her to her limit, a mental space she had undoubtedly reached. This morning had made that abundantly clear. She had been given more than she could handle, and he had played a part in that.

Feeling her sigh against him, he regretted that more than ever. House knew he hadn't been wrong with his opinions; he was right to say that Cuddy had missed a lot when it came to Rachel this weekend. He was _right_ to believe that Cuddy needed to clarify what she wanted from him, that he needed a larger place in Rachel's life. But he had taken the worst approach imaginable.

He had screwed up.

How much more successful he would have been if he had eased her into his revelations – that was all he could think of. It would have gone so much better if he'd just… slowly shown her what he'd been wanting, if he'd taken his time to calmly explain what it was he needed from her.

Instead, he'd gone for being blunt. He'd relied on the brutal honesty that had served him well time and time again, and fueled by frustration, he'd barreled through her misgivings, failing to pay attention to her needs. Entering histrionic territory, he had accomplished nothing – and worse, made it unlikely that she would ever be able to hear what it was that he'd been trying to say.

Admittedly he had no intention of backing down. House would not let this go. Having said the words aloud, he understood there was no going back.

There was no taking the words back.

She'd taken offense; she'd rejected everything he had tried to tell her. But she had heard enough to push him on the matter. He hadn't taken the right approach, but that wouldn't mean Cuddy would drop the subject.

He'd been thinking about that too today. Regardless of what he wanted, she would demand a conversation tonight. He was content with that, would make sure that he didn't lose control again this evening. However, he wasn't going to be the one to say something first. He had done that the night before, and _that_ hadn't turned out well for him. So he was satisfied to wait, happy to just _hold_ her.

To have her in his arms… he needed that as much as anything. To feel her against him, to have that warmth between them, and know that there was no relationship that had ever meant as much as this was necessary for him in that moment. The reminder was important. It reinforced in him _why_ he was bothering with any of this, told him that the stress of the weekend hadn't completely undone what they'd spent years trying to create.

House could only hope she felt the same way.

Within a few minutes, he thought that that seemed to be the case. Although he was sure she had a lot on her mind, she didn't say a word. If anything she seemed just as content as he was to stay there in the silence, their bodies pressed together in a gentle embrace.

That gave him hope.

He would never deny that her reaction had been partially his fault. He wouldn't. Accepting responsibility, however, didn't prevent him from hoping she'd calmed down at work. Frankly, knowing he'd made her that way was the only thing keeping him from being furious. She'd been so irate and afraid and _irrational_ last night that he had feared how things might go if she remained that way today. But with her on top of him, he could see that she had had enough time to at least _recognize_ the need to change her behavior. And it gave him the slightest bit of encouragement to know that she wasn't on the rampage still.

Of course, he knew better than to assume she would stay this way. She was calm now, but one wrong move, and he could provoke her back into last night's mindset. He didn't mean to make her sound crazy; she wasn't. He didn't intend for her to seem like a wild animal capable of violence if he pushed her too far; she _could_ hurt him, but she wouldn't. She had more control than his words gave her credit for. He was aware of his inaccurate characterization, knew how offensive it was on some level. But that didn't change his overall belief: that thoughtlessly, he could take her back to that mental space. Whatever control or calm she had achieved, it was wrong to take advantage of that, to assume it would last. If making her sound insane was the price he had to pay for reinforcing that knowledge in his head, he was okay with that.

He would do anything to avoid a repeat of last night.

For a moment, that seemed possible. His hands were warm on her back. Running the length of her spine, his fingertips traced the lines of her body. He could feel that she was relaxed beneath him, her muscles no longer tense as they had been this morning. She was calm but not asleep. One of her palms flat on his chest, she wasn't stroking him as he was her. But the love in the touch did not go unnoticed or unappreciated.

Her head shifted a little. Her cheek rubbing against his t-shirt, the movement was enough for him to angle his head down; he wanted to see her, wanted to look at her… and found himself somehow kissing her instead.

Their lips had found their way to one another. They moved together in a soft kiss. If this morning had wrought cold passion from them, this now was the opposite. There was heat between them, an overwhelming sense of love without need. His hand cupped her cheek, her fingers twisting in his shirt, but there was no urgency.

It wouldn't lead to sex. He thought they were both aware of that. His dick being soft enough to sell toilet paper, he assumed it was obvious where this _wasn't_ headed.

Their hands petted and stroked but without ever dipping beneath the clothing. Their tongues met but without the sense that there was more to have, to do. They were simply kissing, touching, partaking in the comfort the other provided all the while knowing that there was no expectation for more.

Truthfully, that fact was the true source of reassurance. More than the kissing, the physical touch, it was knowing that they were on the same page. They were _finally_ there.

All weekend long they'd been out of sync. He'd forced the truth from her about the party, and then they'd manipulated one another to get what they wanted. When he'd been reluctant to watch Rachel, Cuddy had ignored him. When she'd told him on Saturday night that sex would not provide the comfort he'd needed, he hadn't listened. And his words had fallen on equally deaf ears multiple times in the last twenty-four hours. It had simply been never ending.

The truly disturbing part? When they'd worked together well this weekend, it had been because they were trying to cover up their disjointedness. Last night, as Rachel had suffered on the bathroom floor, they'd done their best to take care of her, to cover up the anger between them. They'd worked as one, effective and without issue, but it had been…

_A lie_.

Unbeknownst to Rachel, they'd been fighting. The image they'd managed to project had been anything but real, and the seamlessness of that had been a slap in the face. It had said to him that they could be the perfect couple, a _team_, but only as a cover, as something that hid the dysfunctional, unhappy relationship underneath.

Truth be told, House could take the dysfunctional label. He was under no illusions about the normalcy of their family. They were… complicated, screwed up, nowhere near average. On their own, they had problems. Together, there were times when the clash of personalities was so great it felt like they had no business being with one another. Usually though those moments were rare, typically reserved for the instances when work refused to stay there and came home with them. And when they did happen, as awful as it was, as much as it could have made him question in the _moment_ their rightness for one another, it always passed.

But this weekend had made him reconsider that. They'd always been dysfunctional, but this was the first time it had felt like the misery was never going to end.

He wasn't sure they were finally on the other side of things. He knew Cuddy would want to discuss what had happened, and even if he did his best, he couldn't necessarily prevent a fight from occurring. This could have merely been a small break from the heartache and stress they seemed buried under. If that were true though, he thought it was even more of a reason to treasure this tiny reprieve.

And yet he knew he could not relish in the moment for much longer. The more he kissed her, the weaker his resolve became. There was no expectation of sex, nor did he think it was a good idea to even _try_ to get into her pants. But the longer his lips were on hers, the more he touched her, the more his body started to get other ideas.

He didn't _really_ want more. But, and this was perhaps out of habit, he could feel his control slipping. The fingers stroking her spine started to slip beneath the hem of her pants. Instead of enjoying the warmth of her body, he began to think about her breasts specifically and how they were pushed up against his chest. The heated effect instantaneous, he abruptly pulled away from her.

Her lips somehow managed to reach his once more, though briefly, as he tried to put as much distance as possible between her eager mouth and his body.

"You don't have to stop," she said with a pout. Clearly she was content to take things further.

"Careful," he told her wryly. "Keep doing that, and you're going to have to put out – and I know how much you hate doing that."

"Definitely don't want that to happen," she responded with an equally facetious tone.

He could see though that she didn't necessarily realize his seriousness. She'd taken his light words as being nothing more than a joke. And though she wasn't trying to kiss him, he wanted to make sure she didn't make a move.

"I think we could use a break," he said simply. "If you want to get laid, you're gonna have to buzz one out yourself."

"Then you should probably get your hand off my ass."

Called on it, he noticed then that his body had continued to respond to her in spite of himself. Without even knowing it, he'd slipped his hand under her pajama pants, fingers gripping her ass possessively. Quickly he rectified the situation.

Meanwhile, she changed the topic. Having destroyed the moment, he supposed she was ready to move on to other things. "Did you eat dinner?"

He shook his head. Whether or not she saw that though he didn't know. She'd already closed her eyes and laid her head down on his chest once more. "No," he said, wanting to avoid any confusion. He'd been too busy with Rachel to even consider feeding himself, and then he'd fallen asleep. But explaining that would shift the conversation to the kid; he'd be opening a door, a way out of the discussion they were on the cusp of having, and he didn't want that. He didn't really want to address what had happened, but he knew it was unavoidable. And delaying the inevitable was the last thing he was interested in. The sooner they talked, the better, he felt. "You want something?"

The pause she took to answer told him that she hadn't eaten recently. Mentally weighing the worth of taking the time to make dinner or order something, she was probably hungry – just not necessarily hungry enough to do anything about it.

"Just order something, I guess," she mumbled eventually.

"Pizza?"

"That's fine."

He struggled to reach behind him and grab the cell phone he'd placed on the end table hours ago. Cuddy's weight on top of him didn't help, but eventually he got a hold of it. "What do you want on it?"

"I don't care."

House doubted that. If history were any indication, she would say she didn't care and then interrupt as he ordered to say all of the things she _didn't_ want on her pizza. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that, when she said she had no preference, he always became determined to prove she did by making the nastiest combinations possible so that she had to speak up. But as always, he chose to ignore that fact. Today though he had no interest in pushing her buttons much less upsetting their tentative balance by making any unnecessary accusations.

Choosing to dial the number without another word, he was relieved when she didn't interrupt him. It probably helped that he ordered what she normally liked or would have wanted on the pie. But again, he had no desire to aggravate her. And if this small moment of action went well, he was grateful – whatever the reason.

When he hung up, she asked quietly, "Will they deliver?"

He made a noise indicating they would. "You might have to flash the delivery boy as a tip for –"

"I don't think I can move," she said slowly, the words slurring a little.

"Tired?" His fingers running through her hair, he could feel her nod her head.

It was a small act, not intended to draw the guilt out of him. But it _was_ doing that. Simply feeling the exhaustion within her, he was overwhelmed with the knowledge that he could have behaved differently, _better_. He wasn't delusional enough to think that he could have fixed everything; he _slept_ with Cuddy, but he was _not_ her. Yet he understood, maybe now more than ever, the part he had played in her misery. He could have made _some things_ better, and he hadn't. He had chosen not to.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out, the words coming out in a rush. He hadn't meant to utter the apology so quickly. In his head, he'd planned to be smoother about it, to make it seem like this wasn't as difficult as it was. Having said it though, he couldn't take the apology back. It was out there.

Cuddy looked up at him in confusion. "What?" She shook her head as though she didn't understand what he was saying. "Why are you apologizing to me?"

It wasn't hard to see that she meant the question she was asking. Under different circumstances he might believe that she was saying the words to force him to fully acknowledge what he had done, to make the apology _really_ hurt him. But what he saw in her eyes was genuine confusion. He had no other option than to explain.

"I've just been thinking," he said with a slight shrug. "It's been a… _bad_ weekend, and I wasn't making things better for you. I shouldn't have pushed you so hard."

"I don't understand."

And she didn't. _She_ was the one who was supposed to be apologizing, the one who should have been leading the conversation. House had beaten her to the punch.

"After you left this morning, I couldn't go back to sleep. I kept thinking about Saturday night and –"

"Saturday night?" she interrupted, more confused than ever. "I don't – what happened –"

"_This_." His thumb lightly stroked the sensitive spot on her neck where he had bit her a little too roughly. An instant reminder of what had happened, she thought it said something about the last few days that she had forgotten all about it.

"It's fine," she told him honestly. She didn't exactly have the right to be angry about something she could barely remember occurring at all.

But he didn't seem to agree. "It's not. You didn't want –"

"Didn't want?" She scoffed loudly at the words. "What exactly do you think happened?"

It was impossible to miss the shame in his eyes. The meaning perfectly clear, he didn't need to say what he believed had taken place. She wasn't even sure he _could_ voice the words, the idea that he had… _God_, she could barely even _think_ what it was that he was implying.

"I feel like I forced –"

"_Forced_?"

"Pushed," he amended quickly. "You didn't –"

"You're an _idiot_." The intensity in her tone shut him up as fast as he had put forth the idea. Whether he believed her or not or simply felt too ashamed to continue speaking was unclear. But Cuddy wasn't going to take any chances. "I was _not_ –"

"You hesitated."

She rolled her eyes. "House. You were… confused. You didn't know how to deal with what Rachel had said to you. And _I_ knew that having sex wasn't going to make _that_ any better."

"Which is why you hesitated," he said, as though all of this should have been quite obvious to her.

"_Yes_. Because I thought it was necessary to say that it wouldn't comfort you."

He looked away, sighed, and then glanced back at her. "I didn't listen to you."

"And that's _so_ new for me," she said sarcastically. "You usually _always_ listen to –"

"Why are you making this so difficult?"

His frustration was barely suppressed. Hints of it in every syllable, it wouldn't be long before the feeling was blatant. And that was the last thing she wanted, because she was _sick_ of the fighting. She didn't want to _keep arguing_ over the dumbest things. She wanted to apologize and make up with him and put those papers in his hand to see what he would do. But that last bit seemed like it would never happen, _couldn't_ because they were too busy going over things that should have caused no problems with them to begin with.

"Listen to me," she told him. She tried her best to remain calm. Hands gently resting on his shoulders, she said reassuringly, "When you have bad ideas, you know that I take great pleasure in telling you how bad they are."

"Maybe, but –"

"Sex wasn't going to help, and I told you that. You couldn't hear that – do not interrupt me," she warned. "Which is fine. We had sex, and while I can honestly say it wasn't the best use of five minutes of my time –"

"Hey!"

"I don't regret it either." She purposely ignored his outrage. "I didn't feel pressured. I didn't say no. It was what you thought you needed, and I willingly gave you that."

"Did you?"

"You're pitiful." He didn't deny it. "Give me some credit. We've been fighting for the last day. I'm pretty capable of telling you no when I don't want to do something."

There was no counterargument right away. For that reason, she thought she must have convinced him a _tiny_ bit, because if he didn't believe her at all, he would have retorted instantly. Instead he sat silently, quietly contemplating her words.

She seized the opportunity. "You needed that," she told him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. "Just like I needed you this morning. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Maybe. Maybe not with that," he admitted eventually. "But I keep thinking I didn't do enough to…." His voice faltered and gave way to silence. As if he didn't know how to finish the sentence, he pursed his lips together and said nothing.

Part of her wanted to speak up, but she remained quiet. She was hesitant at that moment to push him. He was trying to say something, convey something she admittedly didn't understand. And she worried that if she prodded him for more, he would, out of frustration, shut down. Or he would say what he was thinking, but he would say it in that way… where the seriousness of the point was overshadowed by the cruelty in his tone. There was a good chance she had earned any and all vitriol he sent her way. But accepting that with aplomb in the moment would surely never happen. Reacting before she could stop herself, she would push them back into a fight. Since she didn't want that, she had no choice but to wait patiently.

After a few moments of peace, that effort on her part paid off.

"I just… asked a lot of you this weekend."

"That's okay. I don't –"

"You needed me to help you, and I wasn't – I let my own… _issues_ get in the way." He stumbled over the words, but once the sentiment was uttered, it was easier to continue. "I asked a lot from you, burdened you with _too_ much. And then I got angry with you when you didn't have any faith in me and –"

"House, I trust you."

A lesser man would have made a pained sound at the obvious lie. But the past twenty-four hours had in a way made him numb to the reality of the situation. It hurt; of course it hurt. At the same time though, he knew that her distrust was inherently his fault. And not that that made the situation any easier for him, but he was determined to keep that pain to himself. If she were to ever trust him, it needed to be the result of a choice_ she_ made.

Last night, he had tried to bully her into realization. Tonight he knew that that would never work. And if it did, he would never be happy, because he would always know that he had had to force her to give him what he wanted. Maybe it was tempting to do that anyway, to do anything to get the results he needed. But this wasn't work; this wasn't a test he needed, a diagnosis he wanted. This was his life – _their_ life. Bulldozing his way through her resistance would only make her resent him in the end.

If he had thought about it yesterday, he would have known that from the beginning and acted differently. Having not thought at all about her, he had made demands, something she had never been happy to respond to. And all he could do was try to avoid making the same mistakes again; she might have been willing to forgive the first few times, but she would inevitably become fed up if he kept creating the same problems.

Unfortunately for him, his silence, which she must have believed to be intentional, seemed to make her think he was calling her a liar.

"I _do_," she insisted.

Ironically it was that conviction that compelled him to respond. Before he might have been able to let the moment slide; hearing her speak with such a lack of awareness though… that provoked him.

"Yeah, you trust me," he said bitterly, the words escaping him before he could even try to stop himself. "Just not with Rachel, right?"

Her lips parted in surprise. Mouth slightly agape, it was clear that she hadn't expected the anger. And they were in agreement on that, because he hadn't anticipated that response either. But his shock quickly gave way to an urgent need to protect himself.

Whether he'd intended to say what he had didn't matter. The fact that he had now ruined the moment for both of them _did_. He'd upset their tentative peace, and now… Cuddy would punish him for the mistake.

Within seconds he had his defenses raised. If she reacted in anger, he needed to be ready for that; he needed to ensure that he didn't make his mistake worse by escalating the frustration in the room. Whatever she said, he knew he just… had to take it, accept it. One of them would have to get them back on track. Since he'd been the one to screw up, he had to be the one to fix it.

But her reaction was one he had no defense for. Rather than yell at him, Cuddy chose to… he didn't even know what to call it. Description beyond his capabilities, he was too shocked by her patience to give her response the proper wording.

Pulling away from him a little, she said calmly, "We need to talk about that. I'm not trying to pretend like we don't. But I don't want to discuss that until you understand I don't blame you for anything that happened Saturday. You didn't do anything wrong."

Clearly he didn't believe her. He didn't say she was lying, but he obviously wasn't going to accept the truth simply because she said it. That much was apparent to her.

Out of frustration, she was tempted to give up. She knew though that she couldn't. If they just moved right into the larger problem at hand, part of him, she felt, would hold onto that guilt that he had inside of him. At least, if she were in his position, she wouldn't eagerly be able to accept the change in topic.

For that reason, she couldn't move forward; she couldn't apologize for her own mistakes until he understood that his part in all of this had been…

Minimal.

The more he apologized, the more she could see: she'd created this issue. If she'd just pretended to listen to what he'd said last night, she could have avoided this fight. Not indefinitely, but maybe… she would have been able to spare all of them this conversation tonight.

No, she thought instantly, changing her mind. There would have been a fight. Even if she'd reacted to his pronouncements as best as she could, it still wouldn't have been enough for him. She didn't believe that he had been pushy Saturday night, but she had no doubt that he would have been when it came to his claims last night. No matter what she'd done, he would have demanded more from her than she could have ever given him. A fight would have happened either way.

And she wasn't sure what that meant, exactly. Was he earnest with his words, in his claims of love for her daughter? Or was he just trying to needle her for some reason she couldn't understand? Perhaps, she thought, he was toying with her, because she had relied on him so much this weekend.

Whatever the reason, a fight had been – was still – inevitable. Perhaps he had been less guilty than she; he was certainly _making_ her feel guiltier by apologizing. But he hadn't been blameless.

At that moment, a voice inside of her whispered, "Let him feel bad. Let him think he did something wrong."

What would that accomplish though?

They were in a terrible place. He was apologizing for things he hadn't done; she _wasn't_ apologizing for her mistakes. She was trying to reassure him. He didn't believe her, and through it all, it felt like they were avoiding the things that had led them to this space to begin with. Worse still, when he'd mentioned Rachel, Cuddy hadn't jumped on that opportunity; the words that would address their problems were ones she was afraid to utter. Nothing was right, but she was too scared to try to fix any of it. And again, she had to wonder what she was trying to accomplish by letting such fears rule her.

But that was all she could do – passively question her behavior. There was no time for bone-deep inspection. His gaze on her, she didn't have the option to reflect on her actions, not now.

"All right. Fine," she capitulated under the heat of his questioning look. "It would have been wonderful if I didn't have to hold your hand all weekend long."

"I know," he said looking away.

"On the other hand, neither of us could have predicted everything else that happened, so it's not your fault. I don't blame you." She was speaking in clipped tones, her agitation apparent. Knowing that the mood between them was pretty much ruined, she pulled away from him then. Slowly she peeled herself off of him. Although she would have liked to stay exactly where she had been, the dropping temperature between them made that position no longer comfortable. The closeness no longer desirable, she took a seat across from him on the coffee table.

The behavior would not go unnoticed by House, just as her tone of voice wouldn't. She would let him overanalyze it later.

"And Saturday night?" she continued. "Honestly, I didn't even think about it – and wouldn't have if you hadn't mentioned it." Even if things had gone all right on Sunday, she believed that would have still been the case. Sex was currency, equally taken and given when needed or wanted, and she had at no point felt forced, would never feel that way when it came to that evening. That he suspected otherwise made it abundantly clear just how out of sync they were with one another.

"I don't care about that," she told him honestly. "And it's odd to me that we're going back to this _now_ when any fight we could have had over that should have happened –"

"Oh I'm sorry," he said sarcastically. "I didn't realize my reaction had to take place within a certain time frame."

"Of course. It's just surprising to me." As soon as she said the words, she started to get an idea why. "It's like you don't want to talk about what happened last night."

"_Yeah_. I'm totally trying to avoid that, which is why I brought it up a couple minutes ago and you still haven't addressed the –"

"Because we were still talking about Saturday," she snapped. For someone who was so _upset_ for pushing her, he was certainly doing his best to avoid learning his lesson. "But if you want to move on to Sunday night, that's fine. Let's talk about that."

He looked unhappy. He swallowed hard, as though he were trying to bite back whatever remark was running through his mind. "We need to talk about it," he agreed in a firm but not unkind voice. "But if you're going to be upset, we shouldn't –"

"I'm fine," she said hastily, undermining her words with her behavior. "I can handle a conversation," she added, forcing herself then to sound nicer than she felt.

"I'm not saying you can't. I know we _can_ talk about this now. But you're tired and –"

"No." She shook her head. Although what he was saying made sense, she would not put this off any longer. His offer was tempting, but avoiding this would be unhelpful. All that time _not_ talking would be unproductively spent considering what to say when they did have this conversation. And she didn't have the time for that, not this week. "I want to do this now. I don't want to put it off indefinitely and worry about what will happen or not happen and spend all of that time in the meantime fighting, because we need to talk about it and haven't."

"Okay. If that's what you want." She could tell he was trying to be nice, respectful of her decision.

"It is. I don't want to think about this tomorrow morning."

At first it seemed like he agreed with her. "That would be nice." Then he added, "But I don't think it's going to be that simple."

"Well… maybe not. But we need to talk about it."

"We do. I just don't want to fight."

"We're not going to fight."

He couldn't have looked more incredulous if he tried. "So this conversation is going to take place in a fantasy land you've –"

"I'm being serious. I can't deal with an argument, so I'm not going to –"

"Then we're going to need some ground rules," he suggested. "Because otherwise you know that's where we're going to end up."

"_Fine_. Don't interrupt me. That can be the first rule."

She was being snide, but he took her tone well. With a shrug, he said, "Okay. Now one of my own." He didn't say anything, just beckoned her to him with the repeated curl of his index finger.

"You don't mean that."

"Of course I do. Come here." He patted his chest as though that were supposed to be enticing.

"You sure you want me that close to you?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "Why? You plan on hitting me?" She didn't have a chance to answer. "Cause it's okay if you are. I always did have a fantasy about you as a dominatrix."

"So I've heard," she said standing up. As she crawled back on top of him, she mentioned, "I thought you hated this."

"No. You being on top of me is a guaranteed positive. _But_ if you're going to be on top of me, usually I tend to think there are better things for you to do." In a conspiring voice, he explained, "Things that involve my penis."

Her laugh was muffled by the t-shirt her face was pressed into.

But even as she enjoyed the comment, she started to realize why he had drawn her closer. It was easy to get lost in his body heat, to be reassured by his touch. Lying with him, she found it hard to remember why she'd felt such anxiety all day. Obviously she had not _forgotten_ entirely, but in his arms, she was reminded why she put up with all of the nonsense.

She loved him; she really did.

That didn't make things any less complicated. If anything the closeness served as a reiteration: she needed answers. Easy as it might have been to be lulled by the security he was providing, for her, it mainly egged her on. She wanted nothing more than to relax into him and call it a night. But if Rachel was an issue they couldn't overcome… Cuddy thought it was better to know that now. There'd be less heartache in the long run.

"You okay?" House asked, perhaps taking note of her prolonged silence.

"Yeah," she said though her heart wasn't really in it.

"Cause we don't have to talk about this."

"I already said I was okay to have this conversation."

"I know." His hands rubbing her back in circles, he was obviously trying to keep her calm. "I don't doubt your ability to barrel through your exhaustion any more than I doubt Wilson's ability to find the neediest vagina in a ten mile radius."

In that instant, she couldn't have been more tired of circling around the conversation. They'd gone over whether they should talk; they'd set up rules – actual _rules_ – or at least attempted to. Looking back at it now, she thought it was avoidance keeping them from broaching the subject.

She could have possibly gone along with that for far longer. But bringing up Wilson in _that_ way was so ridiculous that it shocked her back into reality. It made her see that they couldn't keep avoiding this. And if House was starting to talk about Wilson's sex life, they _really_ needed to discuss their real problems, as the alternative was not something she wanted to contemplate.

Not even a little bit.

Admittedly it was tempting – _almost_. She knew the words she had to say, knew what she and House were on the cusp of, and the fear of it made part of her stubbornly wish to stave off reality for a little while longer.

As it was, the heart of the matter seemed difficult to get to. All avenues were equally less than ideal in her eyes. Words needed to be said, but her tongue and lips and voice couldn't work together to create the perfect sentence. No matter how hard she tried, there just wasn't a way she saw to broach the subject with even a hint of grace.

Maybe she had earned that. She'd been out of control last night, ready to lash out at any moment. If she saw no good path to take, she supposed it was the natural consequence of burning bridges.

So…the only option she had was to latch onto the first set of words she could find and go with it.

"I'm not exhausted," she said. "Well, I am, but I'd rather do this than not, because I know you deserve an apology, and I don't want you to think I'm not aware of how _insane_ I've been."

She'd admitted it, but the truth didn't seem to have any effect on House. He didn't look pleased, didn't seem relieved that she had said what they both knew. On the other hand, he wasn't outraged either. There was no sign that he disagreed with her whatsoever. In fact, he probably _did_ agree that she had been crazed last night. And if he believed that, then his behavior now could only mean that he wanted more from her. He expected her to continue.

"I'm sorry I didn't listen to you last night. You were trying to be helpful, and I wasn't able to see that, I guess."

He was torn deciding how to react. She wasn't downplaying her behavior; nevertheless part of him wanted to rub her mistake in. As much as she was admitting it, a piece of him still felt like it wasn't enough. From her perspective, she could probably _see_ how terrible she had behaved. But she could never know how it had felt for _him_. To try to be supportive and then to have that effort rejected, derided, or outright ignored – that was something she might recognize, but she would never know how it felt.

True, he had by and large accepted his role in her reaction. He couldn't, wouldn't, deny that he had contributed to her stress. That didn't make her behavior any easier for him to take. And part of him had been willing to pretend like it hadn't hurt. Now that she was trying to apologize though, that side of him longed for some sort of justice.

But he couldn't do that. He wasn't above childishness, but even for him, this would be too much. She hadn't had any trouble forgiving him just minutes ago when he'd confessed his guilt. Obviously, she didn't have a problem with his behavior, which made forgiveness that much easier. And in that way, their positions were different. Yet House knew he couldn't act any differently than she had. She hadn't been angry about that one particular thing, but how many times over the years had he pissed her off? How many times had she forgiven him? The answer was "too many to count."

Even if that weren't the case, House reminded himself that this was just the beginning of the conversation. An apology alone was not going to fix all of their problems, which meant they had plenty more to talk about. If he were to make her work hard for it right out of the gate, there was a good chance she would become exasperated. Resentful of his resentment, she would make the rest of their discussion all the harder to get through.

Since that was the _last_ thing he wanted, he chose to be kind, understanding. The decision right, it nonetheless felt awkward to accept the apology without a word. At least it felt weird under these circumstances. Given what they were talking about, it didn't seem right to let her get away with her callousness, her _selfishness_.

He'd pushed her, yes, and he hadn't handled the situation as best as he could. But she'd been unwilling to listen to him when it came to Rachel. No, it was worse than that; this wasn't merely an inability to hear him out. This was Cuddy choosing from the start to disregard anything he had to say about Rachel, because Cuddy had already decided that he had no right to speak up. She had already chosen to keep him apart from her family. And if that didn't spell out their doom, he didn't know what did.

Knowing that this was as serious as it was, he found it difficult to stay silent. Fighting he could do; letting her speak without interruption, without being forced to deal with his anger, was something he could as well. He had prepared himself all day for this discussion, had told himself that he needed to get this right or else face the consequences. But it still felt odd to go without questioning her, without making accusations.

"I was upset about Rachel," she explained. "And I took that out on you."

He raised an eyebrow. From what he could tell, she was copping to her behavior after Rachel's blood sugar had crashed. But Cuddy hadn't said anything about their first fight that evening, the event that had set the tone for what had happened once Rachel had gotten sick.

Then, try as he might to be understanding, he had to say something. He felt compelled to.

"I don't blame you for how you reacted when Rachel was sick," he said. He sounded more stern than he wanted. "Expecting you to be calm and rational right after your kid has a medical emergency would bekind of _stupid_, don't you think?" The question was rhetorical. "Then again, I guess I was being an idiot for trying to address our earlier fight at that moment. But all of that needed to be said. It was what I was trying to tell you and didn't earlier. So I said it then. And it's funny to _me_ that you're here now willing to apologize for everything after Rachel got sick but not before."

"I was getting to that," she said dryly.

He was doubtful. "Really? Cause it seemed like –"

"I _was_ getting to –"

"And now you just broke your own rule about interrupting."

She smirked. "I wouldn't be the only one then, would I?"

"You're right." He realized he had done that. "I take my point back. Keep going. You were groveling for my forgiveness."

The muscles in her jaw visibly tightened at his description. Apparently Cuddy did not like his choice of words.

"Was that putting it too cruelly for you?" he asked.

Even to him, the jab was audible. He wasn't trying to needle her, but he could tell that he was. He obviously was. Derision seemed to find its way into his tone. It wasn't heavy handed, but there was enough of it to make him less than magnanimous about the whole situation. Perhaps he had never approached true goodness, but he had tried to be supportive of Cuddy. Now he'd undone all of the work of his previous efforts.

A voice inside rallied behind what he rationally knew was a mistake. Anger lurked within, just potent enough to confuse the matter for him. He'd believed being easy on her was the way to go; bitterness made that a less-than-ideal plan.

But to give into that feeling was an act of sabotage, he realized. It was tempting to let himself go and rail against her until she could see what she had done. He wouldn't deny that the desire was there. However, she would never listen to him if he gave into that emotion. She would feel attacked, as though her apology wasn't appreciated at all. She would shut down or fight him, and his sense of injustice would only grow. At least if he tried to appeal to her sympathetic side, he had a shot. If he really got her to see her mistake, she would truly be sorry.

Granted, it wasn't like she was unapologetic right now. She was, he guessed. It just... was a shallow comment on her part. She'd focused on the fight they'd had after Rachel had gone into insulin shock, and that was enough to make him think she didn't get it. But even if Cuddy had planned on apologizing for their earlier fight, it still wouldn't be quite right for him. She could say she was sorry; he wouldn't even deny that she meant it. But until she really put herself in his position, until she understood why they'd had a fight to begin with and corrected that behavior, it simply wouldn't mean much to him in the end.

He would forgive her. He wasn't saying that he would keep being angry – at least not intentionally. He would at least try to forgive her. But this fight wasn't something they could just apologize to one another for and then move on. This was the kind of thing that required... change.

_Change_.

His stomach clenched at the very idea. Even as its inevitability was undeniable, evolution was in equal measures unwanted and desired, impossible and already happening. Ambivalence had stunted their relationship for a while, days passing under the false belief that they could put this discussion off indefinitely. They had couched the when as an if, had pretended not to notice that truth.

Now, they were beyond conditionals. There was no when to look forward to or avoid. They were _there_. And they would either take a step forward or they wouldn't, but they would never move away from that choice as though it didn't exist. She would consciously welcome him into that part of her life, or she wouldn't; he would accept the invitation, or he wouldn't. But those decisions would be made tonight.

And if he wanted it to be as painless a growth or stunt as possible, he had to rein it in. There might be an appropriate time for sarcasm or anger; unfortunately he doubted there would be. But right now she was at least trying to apologize. And no matter how hurt he was, how frustrated, he had to respect that. She was trying, he told himself.

"What I meant to say," he said in halted tones, purposely ignoring her cold gaze. "Was I shouldn't have put it like that. I should have let you get to that point when you were ready to discuss it."

Immediately she agreed with him. "You should have, _yeah_." The irritation quickly fell away thankfully. "But it doesn't matter. You're right. Even if we'd been getting along, I probably wouldn't have been nice to you once Rachel got sick."

"Probably?"

She hesitated before admitting, "Okay... definitely. I know that's not fair to you, but when she's like that..." She swallowed hard, shook her head in almost imperceptible motions that he wouldn't have noticed if not for the way he was now focused on her and only her.

"You don't have to explain." And he meant that. All other behavior aside, that was the one instance where her harsh words meant nothing... or would have under normal circumstances. When Rachel was sick, that was the priority; reassuring Cuddy was. If she took it out on him, because of fear or frustration or something else, he was okay with that. He could be okay with that if everything else was fine.

But obviously things had not been fine before Rachel had woken up.

"I guess," she said in almost listless manner, as though she couldn't muster up the false conviction to even appear convinced.

"You were scared," he explained. "There's nothing you could have done to be prepared for _that_."

"And what you said last night? I was supposed to be ready for that conversation?"

By asking the question, she worried that she had accused him of creating this fight. Then again, she did blame him for bringing all of this up, so maybe it was predictable for that feeling to show through in her words. But predictable didn't mean that it was _right_.

If she hoped to take the question back or soften its bluntness, she failed. He spoke before she could say anything.

"Was there a good time for me to bring this up? You think I don't understand that I should have been more patient with you?" He shook his head. "I know I screwed up. But I saw the way you were with Rachel all night, and it pissed me off."

"And you knew something was wrong."

Saying it out loud made the idea resonate within. The past twenty-four hours, she had circled around this particular truth. Now all of the pieces had come together, and the picture it created was clear.

From her conversation with Rachel, Cuddy had learned that House had at some point talked to Rachel about what had happened. Rachel had told him that those kids had tormented her – or he had figured it out on his own; Cuddy decided after a minute that the latter was the more likely option. But either way he had come to understand what was going on when she had not. And in that light, their conversation last night took on a whole new meaning.

Before she'd been apologizing for… not listening, for overreacting and escalating the situation. But she'd been sorry in a nondescript sort of way; she could see that now. She'd been willing to apologize in order to move forward with what she wanted. She'd known that, if she wanted to see how House truly felt, she had to smooth the ground over for that test.

The way this conversation was progressing, she was seeing just how much she honestly did have to apologize for.

The realization didn't come without frustration. If anything it just made her feel like this night was never going to end. The more issues they tried to address, the more problems seemed to be created or raised. If that didn't elicit a furious response from one of them this evening, it would be, she thought, a miracle.

"Yeah," he admitted then. "And if you know that, then it's safe to assume Rachel talked to you."

"Of course she did," Cuddy snapped back. She didn't mean to be angry, but something in his words set her off. The implication that Rachel wouldn't have said something to her, that there was a possibility this would have all floated over Cuddy's head… it bothered her, infuriated her. But unlike last night, she would not let his jabs get to her. At this point, she was assuming that was what he wanted – to rile her up so that she would feel guilty.

He wouldn't get that.

"I'm sorry that I can't be ten places at once and spend every second of my day addressing all her needs."

"That's just it," he said before she had a chance to keep talking. "I don't expect you to do that. No one would."

"Then I don't understand." She sighed as she said the words. It frustrated her to no end to have to say that aloud, but it was the truth. She didn't get it. They were going around in circles, meandering back and forth between various points and beliefs of guilt, and nothing was being solved. The more they talked, the less any of it seemed to make any sense.

"You're tired," he supplied as an explanation, one of his hands rubbing her shoulder. "Anyone who did half of what you do every day would be exhausted. Now, did it piss me off that you missed what was going with Rachel? Yeah," he said honestly. "It did. Not because you _screwed up_, but because you think you're the only one who can take care of her."

"That would be why I had a nanny for years, why I had you baby sit Rachel for a good part of the weekend. Because I'm arrogant enough to think that I can do this without any help."

"No," he said. Trying to suppress the irritation her dry tone was making him feel, he explained, "See, you're perfectly okay with letting someone else _baby sit_. As long as you're the one in control, that's what matters."

She looked at him like there was no problem with that.

Again, he ignored his agitation and continued. "You know you can't be there for her all the time. It's just not possible. And anyone else in your position would have found people to help them make up for that." She looked like she wanted to interrupt him, so his voice got a little louder. "You _had_ Marina. Now she's dead, and you haven't replaced her. You use me to _baby sit_, but you make all of the decisions. You don't listen to anything I have to say."

She scoffed. "Well, I'm sorry, House. I apologize for not deferring to you on all matters involving my daughter."

"If we had managed to successfully have the conversation last night, if I'd had a chance to tell you those kids had locked Rachel into a closet, would you have listened to me?"

"What do you think I would have done?"

He looked at her carefully. His gaze unwavering, he implored her to come up with the answer herself. But it was clear she wasn't going to.

"Discount what I had to say even before you knew what it was I was going to say. Find some reason to excuse what those brats did, because if you knew Rachel had been fighting that pack of morons every day, you would have to admit I was right about her going to school," he suggested. "I don't know. Something along those lines."

"You think that's what I would do," she said quietly.

It wasn't a question. He obviously believed that, and she knew it. There was a bite to his words, but that didn't mean he was trying to get a reaction from her; he was cold, but he was being honest first and foremost. And that made it harder for her to reject what he was saying out of hand.

"I _know _that's what you would do," he told her. "That doesn't bother me, by the way, because of some screwed up notion you think I have about you being an obedient girlfriend. I don't think that, and it's _obviously_ not true."

"And yet you were apologizing to me twenty minutes ago for _pressuring_ me, so obviously some part of you thinks that way."

"_Actually_ I'm aware of just how stubborn you can be, which is why I'm stunned when you _do_ agree to something I suggest."

"You poor baby," she said sarcastically. "Having to convince me to do something. How hard it must be for you to not have a blow up doll for a girlfriend."

"Well, if I were hoping for a girlfriend without a brain, I guess I'd be pretty happy right now since not even a minute ago I said I never thought that you would or should do what I say automatically."

Perhaps there was something reassuring in his words. It could have been nice to hear that in spite of their near constant fighting, the goal for him had never been to beat her into submission. Unfortunately, he was also insinuating that she was an idiot. And _that_ instantly made her unappreciative of any intended kindness. Although knowing him, she doubted he had actually meant for there to be any niceties in his words, which meant he was just calling her stupid.

Enraged, she felt her nails dig into his skin as her hands tried to turn into fists. It must not have hurt, because he didn't abruptly push her off of him. But then the point had never been to _hurt_ him.

On the other hand, it must have alerted him to her irritation, because he was quick to eat his words.

"I shouldn't have said that. I didn't mean that."

"Of course not."

He ignored the remark. "I _like_ that you challenge me; it makes outsmarting you that much more fun." He cocked his head to the side, obviously rethinking his words. "And I know you think I probably just insulted your intelligence again, but that's not what I mean. I don't think you're an idiot; I _know_ you're not. But the only thing more irritating than when you're _wrong_ and won't admit it is when you don't even want the conversation."

He sighed in frustration, his breath coming out in a ragged exhale.

"I would have been pissed if I'd told you what I knew about Rachel and you didn't believe me, sure. But I went into that conversation _knowing_ that you had no intention of listening to anything I had to say."

"Then why say anything at all?" she asked. "If what you're saying is true, why even bother?"

"Good idea. Because what would really make things better between us would be to have Rachel come to you, explain things to you, and make you realize that I knew what had happened. Cause that wouldn't have created a whole different fight between us, right?"

She couldn't disagree there. She would have been livid if Rachel had told her something House had known about and kept a secret. Frankly, if they hadn't been bogged down already with half a dozen points of contention, Cuddy was sure she would have been far angrier that he had learned the truth before she had.

As it was, the predicament they were in was difficult enough; Cuddy hated knowing that he had found something out about her daughter before _she_ had.

She _hated_ it.

Sure, Rachel had told her what had happened. She had come to her, which was the important part Cuddy thought. It wasn't as though this had been kept a secret from her. And yes, from Rachel's reaction, Cuddy knew that she was only making things worse by being jealous, by allowing herself to believe it was him versus her. But… she couldn't change how she felt.

And if House had known and willingly kept the truth from her, she knew they would have had a fight bigger than the one last night.

"Yeah," she agreed, her gaze focused on a pulled thread in a couch cushion. "I guess that's true."

"No matter what I did, you were going to be mad at me. I get it: this relationship was gonna be difficult under the best of circumstances," he said bluntly. "You and me? That wasn't exactly asking for nice and easy."

In the back of her mind, she was impressed that he didn't take a comment like that and turn it into something sexual, about how easy she was in bed. But that was merely a passing thought. For the most part, hearing him admit that just made her wonder:

Did he think it was worth it?

The way he spoke, she wasn't sure. And the fear that he might look at their relationship like that made her insides knit together with tension.

"I don't regret that." He arched his back so that he could kiss her. His lips against hers, he whispered, "You are… _disturbingly_ worth it." He laid his head back down. "_But_ when it comes to Rachel, you guarantee that I lose regardless of what I do."

Instantly she found herself wanting to deny it. Or rather, knowing it was true, she felt compelled to point out, "You're not blameless in this, House. Let's not act like you've always tried to have a relationship with her and that I've always prevented you from having one."

He wanted to blame her for all of it, she thought defensively. But it just wasn't true.

"I didn't say that," he insisted. "I know I've screwed up. I can admit that; I'm not sure you can."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course I can."

"If that were true, you would have apologized already. You would see that I don't care that you freaked out after Rachel got sick. You would _see_ that you are single handedly making things with Rachel impossible."

He was calm, eerily so. Last night he had been quick to anger, eager to go below the belt and insinuate that she was a terrible mother. Now he seemed to her completely relaxed. His words lacked the bite of accusation; as though he were trying to be as inoffensive as possible, he was saying how he felt without even the faintest hint of emotion in his tone.

He was guaranteeing she couldn't respond angrily. At that point, she wasn't sure she wanted to be pissed off, but either way, he was talking in an even voice so that she _wouldn't_ get mad.

Twenty-four hours ago, he had taken a similar approach – when he'd tried to keep her calm after Rachel had gotten sick. It had been planned nicely, but in the end it had only made her even more furious. And her first instinct was to react the same way now.

But she couldn't.

Whether he was right or wrong, it didn't matter. If she responded to his manipulation with anger, he would appear right in every way. And maybe he wouldn't have been, but again, it would make no difference. At the end of the day, they would fight; they would resolve nothing, and the answers she wanted would continue to evade her.

Swallowing her anger, she forced herself to be calm.

"That's why the conversation didn't go well last night," he said. "Because I knew you were going to furious no matter what. I do something wrong, you hold onto it like that's all I've ever done. I do something _good_, and you discredit it _or_ act like my success is an indication of some failure on your part, and it's _not_."

He reached forward and gently brushed some hair out of her face.

"It's not," he repeated, perhaps sensing that she would not believe him at first glance. "This is supposed to be a partnership. Letting me play a part in Rachel's life is… what's supposed to happen."

"It's not that simple."

"No, it's not _easy_. But it seems pretty clear to me: the more you pretend this isn't happening, the more miserable everyone is. The logical conclusion would be to _stop_ doing that, move forward," he said with a shrug.

Cuddy didn't know what to say to that. She couldn't even believe he was talking this way. Maybe he was right, but he was acting as though _change_ was the inevitable answer here. From anyone else, she might have believed them at face value. But this was _House_. Since when did he think people changed or _could_?

"You want to apologize for something? There you go," he told her. "You should be sorry for hurting _us_, _Rachel_."

"I'm not trying to do that."

"I know. And to be honest with you, I don't even want an apology."

She blinked in confusion. "Then why –"

"Cause I'm pretty sure out of everyone, this sucks for you the most."

"And how do you figure that?" Tongue against her teeth, she was challenging him.

His answer was immediate. "If Rachel gets upset, she can blame you or me. If I'm pissed about this, I know it's not my fault, because I've done my best to make _you_ happy. But if _you're_ unhappy, you don't have anyone else to blame. Rachel's five. I have tried my best to do what you want, how you want. Have I screwed up?" he asked rhetorically, probably sensing that she would remind him of his mistakes. "Of course. Trying to please you when you don't even know what you want? Yeah, that's a pretty big mistake to make on my part. But I'm trying to make things better. Right now, I don't know what the hell you're trying to do."

The doubts he had hurt. She'd had plenty of missteps during the course of their relationship, and she would never pretend that she thought she'd been anywhere near perfect this weekend. Obviously she hadn't. But not once had she believed she'd been giving him the impression that she didn't care about their relationship. And yet she must have done so, because here he was doubting that she wanted the same things he did.

"House," she said, her voice pinched with ache. "I love you."

The corners of his lips upturned slightly, briefly. "I know."

She rubbed her fingers together nervously. "I want this to work. I don't… I don't want to lose you."

"I know," he repeated. "But like I said, you don't trust me with Rachel. Not really. And until you do…." He let the resignation he felt bleed through for her to see. "We are stuck _here_. Nothing will change."

"Well… maybe not."

She hesitated like there was more to be said, and clearly there would _have_ to be. If she thought something could change, there had to be some explanation to go along with that assertion. Just believing they weren't trapped by her indecision was not enough for him, which she surely knew, which meant there had to be more. There _had_ to be, so he kept quiet. Patience would work better for him here. Pushing her wouldn't work, but giving her a wide birth might.

"I've been thinking about this and… last night," she explained slowly. "And maybe… you're right… definitely right."

He didn't take it for granted that she meant that. If anything, he responded to her words with suspicion, with the belief that she was probably going to change her mind within seconds. It would be stupid, of course, to voice those ideas, and he remained silent to see how she might proceed. But for his part, he was cautious, so much so that he wouldn't even entertain the idea that she was coming around to his thought process.

At that moment, she started the delicate process of sliding off of him once more. Feet tentatively pressing into the couch cushions, she carefully eased herself away from his embrace. For a brief moment, he feared that she had given up on the conversation; exhaustion abruptly robbing them of any chance for resolution, it was the possibility he feared most likely.

But then she sat down on the couch next to him.

Her ass precariously seated on the small sliver of space he wasn't taking up, she looked over at him. "I'm having trouble with the next step."

He reached for her, but she was quick to push his hand off. "But we have no other choice, right?"

Something about her rushed manner of speaking caught his attention. The idea that she was lying hit him, though he wasn't sure that was the case. He trained his gaze on her in the hopes of deciphering her behavior. But at that moment, she stood up and headed towards her briefcase; he continued to watch, but she made understanding impossible. And then, when she bent over and gave him a shot of her ass, comprehension became the last thing on his mind.

"You do this to me on purpose," he accused lightly, eyes never leaving the way the fabric of her pajama pants clung to her curves.

She craned her head around, saw the look on his face, and smirked. "I'm getting something from my bag."

"Keep bending over like that and you're gonna get something from my pants."

She sunk down into a crouch. "Fine. Now it's not a problem."

"But now I can't stare at your ass, so…."

"You'll get over it."

The conversation over, she rummaged through her briefcase. First pulling out her wallet, she set it on the coffee table, presumably for when the pizza came. Then she grabbed a package he hadn't anticipated seeing. But years of working in the clinic ensured that he recognized what it was.

The morning after pill.

The packet crumpled loudly in her hand as she dumped that too on the table next to her. And though she went back to digging through her belongings, he stayed focus on the pills before him.

"You haven't taken it yet," he mentioned carefully.

"It makes me dizzy. And with the D.E.A. breathing down my neck, I didn't think it was professional to get it from the hospital pharmacy, so I waited until after work."

"You stopped somewhere?" She nodded her head. "You could have told me. I would have –"

"You had your hands full with Rachel."

"You didn't wait," he suggested with increasingly obvious caution. "Because you weren't sure whether –"

"Don't be an idiot. I waited because I didn't want to get sick at work. And I needed to stop elsewhere anyway, so it's fine."

His eyes lit up with surprise. "You stopped somewhere else?" He had assumed she'd come home immediately from work. She was tired, stressed; it didn't make sense to stop elsewhere.

"I stopped by my lawyer's office," she said, answering the question he had yet to ask.

And that was when she pulled out the papers.

Handing them to him, she explained, "It's… difficult. For me to give you what you want."

She was carefully choosing each and every word. The manner in which she spoke was halted, every syllable measured and given weight. House wasn't sure if that made her honest or just unpracticed with the lie.

That sounded cold, and it was. Here she was, possibly telling him how she truly felt.

And he was prone to doubt.

There was nothing particular about what she said that struck him as being dishonest. She had tells, but right now she was too controlled to give anything away. Yet he doubted her.

He did.

How could he not though? She was saying all of the things he had longed for her to say. All of his life, he had understood that he could be persuasive, his belief in his own rightness usually enough to convince smaller minds; though Cuddy wasn't an idiot, she responded to his sureness, clung to it in moments of personal doubt. So perhaps it wasn't that odd that she should take his point of view on as her own after these years of confusion. But it just seemed... perfect.

Too perfect.

They'd had a huge fight, and he had called her a bad mother. He had undermined his own argument by insanely dumping her pills down the toilet and being cruel to her. He knew – _knew_ – he had been right about her, about how she treated him. But he hadn't presented this knowledge in a way that would convince someone like Cuddy. He wasn't deluded enough to think he had done a good job last night. He knew he hadn't. And for that reason, it seemed suspicious that Cuddy had come around anyway.

That didn't happen.

But glancing down at the papers in his hand, he had the proof that that had occurred. The words blindingly bold, he read aloud, "Legal guardianship." He stopped reading and looked up at her.

She nodded her head rigidly. "I trust you. But... I guess it's easy to ignore you, because you don't have the same legal stake in Rachel's life." Again, her sentences were staccato, pregnant pauses making him hang on each syllable for understanding. "So... we change that. If... something happens to me..."

The thought went unfinished, but the implication was clear.

He didn't know what to say to that. A voice inside of him told him to consider the matter before reacting. But with the way she was looking at him for an answer, he felt compelled to say something. A joke immediately within reach, he seized it.

"And here I was hoping you'd leave me your collection of crotchless panties when you go." It wasn't funny, but it bought him time to assess the situation.

As Cuddy responded, "You can have those too," he looked back down at the paperwork.

Something didn't feel right. That was his initial thought. Something wasn't right about this. She was giving him, he guessed, what he wanted. That realization was enough to throw him off.

Guardianship was what he wanted.

He... wanted Rachel.

Reading the words that would entrust the little girl into his care, he felt how deep that need went within him. He wanted her to be his. How unfortunate for her, he told himself, but he wanted it nevertheless. Imagining a scenario in which Cuddy no longer existed, he saw then that losing Rachel as well would be... the end of him. His thoughts hesitated to coalesce that understanding, shame for the maudlin belief making it hard to accept the truth.

He'd never wanted to be a father. He _still_ didn't want to be a _father_. The loaded title was something he had never pictured being part of his life, and he was uncomfortable embracing it still. He hadn't wanted to be her dad, and more importantly, he knew that he _shouldn't_ be that for Rachel, because she deserved much more than he would ever be able to give her.

But… he wanted _something_.

He'd never thought he would ever yen for that relationship, but here he was, unable to deny that he did.

He wanted this.

And terrifying as it was to admit, he knew that he had lied to himself. When he'd said he'd loved Rachel, he had mentally tried to take the words back. He had told himself that, actually, he'd been lying; he'd been trying to manipulate Cuddy.

He hadn't been.

Playing Cuddy might have been a consequence of the admittance, but that hadn't been the goal. And it certainly wasn't a lie.

It wasn't.

He had been telling the truth – the words coming from him before he even knew what was going on.

He'd said he loved Rachel, and he'd meant it, knew now that it was more than the vague affection one felt for someone they simply saw day in and day out. It made no sense, but there was no denying it anymore. He cared about her, though he had never planned to. He wanted to be in her life, though he had no real right to be there. And he wanted to participate in that life, even while understanding that his presence could possibly do more harm than good. Selfishly he no longer wished to remain on the sidelines, baby sitting and interfering only when Cuddy deemed it necessary.

The papers in his hand were proof of what he wanted, evidence of the change he had no idea was taking place.

It _scared_ him.

He had opened himself up to some small change; he had witnessed it, felt it happening all weekend, even he hadn't been ready for it. Now he was ready. And it was that lack of fear, the overwhelming sense of rightness he possessed, that frightened him the most.

No, he thought instantly. It was scary to know that this was what he wanted, more so to know that he was now capable of actually _having_ what he wanted.

The responsibility of it all enormous, he wasn't sure he would be doing the right thing by signing the papers. This was new and therefore exciting, and he feared that he was blinded to the very real problems that could result from allowing himself to become Rachel's legal guardian. Part of him thought they should wait – at least until Cuddy actually wanted this to happen.

And that thought set off his mind.

This weekend Cuddy had made it clear that she wasn't ready for this step. Every time he tried to do something good, she accused him of spoiling Rachel or looked at the act as though it were competition. She'd been understanding for the most part of his mistakes, but there were times when she'd made it clear that all rules had exceptions to them. He had no doubt that she believed in him far more than anyone else, but he hadn't swayed her to take this step.

True, she had admitted as much when she'd whipped the legal document out. But still… it seemed like a bold move for someone who was so indecisive.

When he looked at her then questioningly, there was no missing the urgency in her gaze. It was a face that silently implored, though for what he didn't know. She was just looking for answers, searching him for information.

It was a tell.

Bitterness coating his mouth, he thought to himself:

This wasn't genuine.

If she had meant what she was offering him now, she would have just changed her will. New Jersey didn't require forms like the ones before him. If she wanted to make him Rachel's guardian in the event of her death, she could have filled out the paperwork in mere minutes and be done with it.

_This_ was a test.

And if he signed the papers, what? What would happen exactly? She wanted answers, _clearly_, but she hadn't demonstrated any intention of changing her ways. So what would he get out of this?

Nothing, he decided viciously.

He would get nothing, because this had never been about resolving the situation. This had been about figuring out just how much he actually cared for Rachel. Because liked he had said earlier, Cuddy didn't trust him. She couldn't, because if she had, she would have already known, probably before he had, just how genuine he was. But she was questioning him, which meant he would get nothing from this. He might pass the test, an unlikely scenario, but what would signing some papers actually mean?

Again – _nothing_.

Suddenly what he wanted seemed more out of reach than ever. Now though there was the added bitterness of knowing that this was in fact what he had hoped for. He was no longer blinded to his desires, and seeing would only make the return to status quo all the more difficult.

If they even made it back to normal, he thought then. Right now, that was the last thing he wanted; being with _her_ was the last thing he wanted. Sitting here with her _watching him_ for some sort of reaction was _not_ what he wanted, and then walking away from this and going back to how things were as though nothing had been wrong…

Well, that just wasn't going to happen.

"You know what the funny thing is?" he asked, looking from the papers to her. "For a second there, I thought you might actually mean what you just said."

She was taken aback but undeterred. "Of course I –"

"Please keep lying," he said with a sneer. Rage curdled within him, made him sick with the knowledge that she had never intended to give him anything. Today he had been determined to remain calm in the face of whatever she threw at him. But the torture of being given what he wanted and having it ripped away…

No, he corrected. It was the illusion of being given what he wanted, the realization that she was _taunting_ him on a whim. _That_ was the worst part; that was what made his anger uncontrollable.

"I'm not –"

"You're gonna deny it?" he snarled. "That's how you think this gets better? By pretending like _this_," he said, tossing the papers at her. She flinched, more so from the anger in his voice than the legal work hitting her in the knees. "Wasn't a _test_?"

If she didn't speak, it was because she was too afraid to. Fear not of him but of the way this had turned out made it impossible to respond. All she could do was think that this was the worst-case scenario; he saw right through the act to her motives.

And she had no clue how he really felt about Rachel.

There'd been a moment, a second where she'd thought she'd seen _something_ in his tightly controlled gaze. But he hadn't voiced the words Cuddy knew she needed to hear. The specifics escaped her, but she understood that she needed him to say something – needed him to _give_ her some sign that moving forward was the right step to take.

He'd given her nothing.

And now he was red with anger, his voice low enough to avoid waking Rachel but filled with disgust and betrayal. Now his gaze was trained on her, demanding some sort of justification for her behavior. In the face of his fury, she wasn't sure she had one.

"Nothing to say?" he asked with a taunt. "No plan B?"

She expected some remark about the morning after pill of the same name sitting by her. But he was livid and either incapable or unwilling to make a joke about any of this. From her perspective, it didn't even look like the thought had crossed his mind. That was how focused on his anger he was. He couldn't be bothered to do anything but lash out at her.

Then again, maybe not, she thought as she watched him open his mouth to say something else. But before he could speak, the doorbell rang.

The interruption should have robbed the air of its tension. That someone was waiting for them to answer the door should have made the moment of silence bearable.

It didn't.

The heat of his glare was intense, captivating. There was someone at the door, but that person might as well have not existed, because Cuddy didn't dare look away, say anything, or move. She didn't trust him enough to tear her eyes away; she didn't trust herself to speak. To do something would be to risk seeming weak, terrified of his outburst. And she had no intention of backing down.

Because of that, she didn't flinch when he abruptly stood up. She didn't move away when he came closer to her, when he reached down and grabbed her wallet. As he straightened back up, he shot her a look, as though he were trying to tell her she needed to rethink her behavior. But she refused to give him any indication that she would listen.

The second he walked away though, she couldn't help but sigh in relief. By no means was this argument over. The moment he bought the pizza, he would be back, and there would be a whole new round of fighting to deal with. She wasn't blind to that reality. They were _far_ from finished. She was grateful for the break anyway.

Pulling herself to her feet, she didn't want to wait around for House to return. Perhaps that would have been the right thing to do… for some reason she couldn't quite explain. But the truth was she had other responsibilities to take care of. Specifically, she had a morning after pill to take. And she worried that if she waited to take it, she would forget.

Going to kitchen, she quickly grabbed herself a glass of water. For a brief moment, she considered bringing a glass for House… but she decided against it. Acts of kindness would be attempts of bribery in his mind; she didn't need to add that complication to things.

It was bad enough as it was.

The heavy thought rooted her to the spot. Shoulders slumped, she felt then the weight of the argument rest against her.

She had failed.

It had been an idiotic plan, she realized. Give him the chance to become Rachel's legal guardian to see how he would react – it was a stupid idea carried out because her exhausted mind hadn't appreciated how foolish it really was.

_Of course_, House would figure it out. He would know what she was trying to do. She'd been hoping to understand what his motives were. But he had gotten angry before she'd gotten answers, and now what was she going to do?

The question was one she didn't have an answer to, one _no one_ would have an answer to. There was no manual to consult, no one she could talk to. She could call Wilson and ask for his advice, but what would that do? What would he say that could make any of this better?

Nothing.

There were no set rules of conduct when considering something as insane as allowing House to play a part in her daughter's life. There was no clear path to take.

Really, the only thing that seemed apparent at that moment was that he would never forgive her for her error. Well, perhaps he would forgive, but she would have to grovel. Truth be told, at this point, she was almost willing to do that if it meant having a clear answer one way or the other when it came to his motives. The chances of that happening though were slim. He would be angry, and she would beg for his forgiveness, and he would accept the apology and give her nothing in return. That was how that would go.

But what else could she do?

Without an answer, she returned to the living room. Under ideal circumstances, she would have a new plan. Then again, in a perfect world, she wouldn't have to _have_ a plan. Yet she knew she couldn't avoid him forever; in this less-than-perfect reality, she didn't have an unlimited amount of time to scheme. That would make him angrier or suspicious, and she would be in an even deeper hole than the one she currently found herself in. So she left the kitchen, glass of water in hand.

He was seated on the couch, the pizza box open on the coffee table. A thick slice in his hand, his teeth viciously ripped a chunk off. He chewed with purpose, with anger, swallowing hard. At no point did he say anything to her.

As she cautiously sat on the cushion next to him, she wasn't sure if that was a good thing. She didn't want him yelling at her, but she also didn't want to suffer through the silent treatment. Of course, she wasn't exactly interested in talking at that moment either, so maybe the lack of conversation wasn't all that awful.

Reaching for the birth control pills, she tried to ignore the way his attention instantly snapped to her. But that was difficult, impossible actually. As he watched her, she questioned why he was so intensely focused on her. Was he upset that she was going to take the morning after pill? Did he still doubt her insistence that she _didn't_ want another baby? Or, and in her opinion this was the more likely scenario, was he simply staring at her, because he was mad, because he knew it would unnerve her?

She didn't ask.

Her fingers worked to open the plastic package in her hand. Seams glued together, it was a struggle to break the bond that held the folds close. She silently fought, kept quiet as she frustratedly tried to pull the damn thing open. But she couldn't get it.

She was busy considering why nothing could go right when he snatched the pills from her grasp.

Immediately she looked over at him. He had the long thick strip of crust lodged in his teeth, a temporary placeholder for his meal. His hands working at the medicine's packaging, he roughly but effectively broke through the seal.

"Thank you," Cuddy said awkwardly, plucking the pill from his grip.

As she punched through the foil, he asked, "You're really going to take that?"

"Yes."

"You're not going to regret that?"

She could tell that it was a genuine question.

Her answer came in the shape of swallowing the morning after pill down with a big gulp of water.

He shrugged, clearly unconcerned with the choice she was making. "R.I.P., genetically screwed potential spawn of mine."

"Yeah, I'm sure you're really upset," she said dryly, grabbing a slice of pizza laden with vegetables. If she'd been hungry earlier, she certainly wasn't now. But the last time she'd taken Plan B, it had made her dizzy, the influx of hormones nauseating. Admittedly that had happened a few years ago, around the time she'd first started sleeping with House after Lucas. They'd been using condoms until she'd been sure House's penchant for prostitutes hadn't caught up with him in addition to the pill; one night she'd been particularly insistent, and they'd broken the condom, and out of fear, she'd taken the morning after pill. That night, while hunched over the toilet, she'd regretted that choice. Naturally, it was possible that in the years since then her body's tolerance had changed, but she wasn't willing to risk it.

Not when there was already so much wrong with this situation anyway.

Forcing herself to take a bite, she recognized that the food was fine. But it didn't taste good. She wondered, as House reached for his second slice, if he felt the same way. Somehow she doubted it.

So she stayed quiet and ate. They both did. At one point, he reached over and stole her water. He took a few sips before handing it back to her, the act as domestic as it got for them. But she wasn't fooled into thinking everything was okay. Outwardly they were calm, but beneath the surface, the friction between them was palpable. Bitterness and anger churned, a sinister undercurrent lurking around them. For a tiny moment in time, she put up with it. She told herself she would deal with it as long as it took for her to give her stomach a fighting chance with the pill.

When she was halfway finished with her second piece, she felt she had stayed silent long enough.

That didn't make it easier to speak up though.

Wanting to say something was far different than knowing what to say, and the tension between them so intense, Cuddy really didn't know what would ease that feeling. She just knew that she had to talk.

Her stomach clenched with nerves, she licked her lips. Toying with the pizza in her hands, she abruptly said, "I'm sorry."

His head bobbed slightly. No sound came out, but it was clear that he was attempting to scoff, snort, or make a noise that cast doubt on her proclamation. As if it wasn't hard enough for her, he felt the need to make it more difficult by treating her as though she didn't mean it.

The thing was – she _did_ mean it. More than anything she wished she hadn't had her lawyer draw up those papers. She still needed answers, but she regretted being so stupid as to think she could get away with_ that_. She regretted acting on that idea, ensuring that the conversation from here on out would be that much harder to get through.

But there was no way House believed that. Everything about his demeanor cast doubt on her honesty, much to her dismay.

"Don't," she said, her voice pleading. "Don't be like –"

"No." The rule about interrupting clearly broken and forgotten, there was no point in bringing it up. She doubted he would have appreciated it. "No," he repeated firmly. "After what _you_ did, you don't get to tell me how I'm supposed to behave."

"I wasn't."

"You were trying to. But if you really want to dictate someone's behavior, you should start with your own."

She did her best to remain calm. "I am trying to apologize."

"Yeah, I'm sure. You're _so_ sorry."

"I _am_."

He shook his head. "I don't believe you."

"I can see that."

"Why?" he asked suddenly. He didn't mean to voice the question plaguing him, but that was exactly what he did. He asked why, wanted to know what the hell had convinced her into believing that doing _that_ was good for their relationship.

She set her half-eaten slice of pizza back into the cardboard box it had originally come from. Her gaze not meeting his, she said, "I don't know."

"You're lying."

She bristled at the assertion. But there was no way she would ever convince him that she didn't have a reason. Hoping to save time by being spared her denials, he said, " You didn't act on a whim. You took the time to go to your lawyer's, have him draw up those papers, put them in your briefcase, drive home, sit here with me, and consider what you were doing. So 'I don't know' isn't gonna cut it, because you _clearly_ had a reason in your screwed up head for offering me a chance to become Rachel's guardian when you never had any intention of letting me do that."

He didn't add that he _deserved_ to know why. He had the right; oh, he _definitely_ had the right. But if she didn't see that, he wouldn't waste his time trying to convince her.

"I wanted to know if you would sign," she said, embarrassment making her voice tight and distant.

He scowled. "That's not a reason."

"It is." She jutted her chin in the air in defiance. She obviously had no plans on backing down. "Would you have?"

"_Yes_."

There was no hesitation, no thinking. He knew exactly how things would have gone if she'd been honestly making the proposal.

But Cuddy wasn't convinced. He wasn't sure if it was the speed of his answer or the content of it that made her doubtful. Whatever the reason though, her suspicion was obvious.

"I don't believe you," she said at that moment.

"Of course you don't. You don't trust me."

"No," she disagreed. "I do."

He couldn't help but laugh. "That's the thing: you _don't_."

She looked at him like he was insane, which… he understood. The truth was it was preposterous to be at this point in their relationship and to be without trust. They had gone to school together, worked together, had sex together, _lived_ with one another, and by now, there should have been no doubt as to how the other person felt. And for the most part, there wasn't. They were close, and in most things, Cuddy trusted him, he knew. But with Rachel?

That was the exception.

That was the one place where Cuddy needed to trust him the most.

And she didn't.

Not that she was ever going to admit it.

But then he knew that if he hoped to get past this hurdle, he would have to force the truth from her.

Undeterred he reiterated the point. "You don't trust me, not with Rachel."

"Stop saying that." The words were rushed, insistent. "I _do_ trust you with –"

"If that were true, you wouldn't need me to sign those papers. You would know –"

"No," she disagreed with a harsh shake of her head. "It's not that simple."

"Really? You're forgetting that I _know_ you. I know how you think, how you behave, and I know when you trust me and when you don't."

She didn't have anything to say to that. He was right; he knew her better than most and certainly well enough to understand her patterns of behavior. She couldn't argue with that.

"Every day I give you hundreds of reasons not to trust me. I don't prove my work. I don't run stupid tests or keep accurate records or waste my time explaining to you why I need what I need half the time. And that's because we both know that I don't need to."

"You're oversimplifying."

"I don't think I am."

"You _are_. But even if you weren't, _this_ isn't work."

He ignored the comment. "You rarely know that I'm right, but you go along with my decisions. You believe that I will _eventually_ be right, because you trust that I –"

"And I can't do that with Rachel," she snapped.

It was the argument that shut him up.

It was the admittance that shut _her_ up.

All day she had circled around the point. She'd allowed herself to think it, act on it, but she had yet to say it to the one person who needed to hear it.

Now he knew.

Part of her had anticipated feeling relieved when he learned of the truth. As it happened though, she just experienced overwhelming pressure to explain herself further.

"You're right. When it comes to work, I place a lot of faith in you. Maybe too much," she admitted after a pause. "But… I'm _willing_ to accept the consequences there. I'm sure you think I mindlessly okay whatever you want," she said with contempt. "That's not actually how it works though."

"Doesn't matter. Whatever the process, at _some point_, you choose to believe that I'm not going to completely screw things up. Make it about Rachel, however, and you assume the worst."

Instinctually she understood what he was getting at. She could trust him with other people's lives; without even second guessing herself, she could and had put her career on the line to let him do his job. A position no sane person would take, she had volunteered herself to be his protector, his freedom. She allowed him to do what he wanted, practice medicine the way he needed to, and she had defended him whenever that didn't work out the way everyone else hoped it would.

Years of that dynamic had created a set of internal expectations independent of whether the patient lived or died. Though he would be loath to admit it, he had – as he had just demonstrated – come to believe that she would inherently support him. If he were going too far, he thought she would draw him back and conversely be willing to go out on a limb for him when she thought he was right. When she didn't do that (or perhaps more accurately, when he _thought_ she wasn't doing that), his sense of betrayal was formidable.

Considering that, she thought she could have anticipated his reaction and the argument he was now trying to make. Her hesitation in this _one area_ was something he didn't know how to handle. To his mind it was evidence of hypocrisy, as though making that point would cause her to back down.

Truthfully, it might have worked – if the issue involved anything other than Rachel.

"I don't assume the _worst_. If I did that, you wouldn't be living here," she said darkly. "After some of the things that have happened this weekend? If I thought the absolute _worst_ –"

"Fine. Maybe not the worst, but you don't trust me with her. You look for reasons not to –"

"I don't do that."

"You do, actually. Because if you didn't, you wouldn't need me to sign papers. You would _know_."

He made it sound so simple that she longed for it to be that easy. They would be much happier if it was that clear cut.

"You think I don't wish it were that simple?"

"Honestly? I have no idea what you want."

She stopped herself from scoffing at the dramatic stance he was taking. He was being ridiculous. He was acting like a child who had been denied something he wanted. And if Cuddy didn't make fun of his histrionics, it was because that same behavior was making her consider that perhaps he really would have signed the legal work. Maybe he _did_ want that promised role in Rachel's life.

Then again, maybe he just didn't appreciate being denied something.

The fact that she couldn't say for sure either way was… precisely the problem.

But if she wanted an answer, she knew she would have to start offering some of her own.

"I _want_ to believe you." Elbows on her knees, she buried her face in her palms. Fingertips rubbing at her temples, she eventually looked at him again. "I wish I could just… trust you when you say…." Her voice trailed off, the bitterness of the thought too much for her to bear. "But every time I get close to doing that, I… can't."

He shot her a look that said he was well aware of that pattern. But then how could he not be? She'd made it so obvious that the only thing left for them to discuss was why she kept behaving that way.

The problem with that was she didn't have an explanation, not really. Faced with his anger, she wanted to understand why she was behaving this way – almost as much as he did. But the best her mind could do was touch on the reason briefly before being abruptly cut off. Her motivation a vague idea in her mind, it was difficult to express that to House.

Especially when he seemed so intent on being as unhelpful and unsympathetic as possible.

She didn't think she deserved any better.

"She's my daughter, House."

"Yeah, I kinda knew that. The whole last name thing sort of gave that away."

She shook her head. "No, I mean that's what I think. When I want to trust you, I think, 'But she's my daughter.'"

"Cause you don't want to share."

"No," she said after pausing to think about the possibility.

He looked incredulous. "You don't want to share."

"Okay," she conceded. "I don't."

"Even though there's absolutely no contest between us. Even though she will _always_ want you before –"

"I know that."

"No, you don't."

"I _do_."

"But you still think that anyway then."

She wasn't ignorant to what he was doing. He wasn't trying to understand; he was trying to make her feel bad.

"Yes," she admitted.

"Because she's _your_ daughter."

"Because…." She fell silent, wishing her mind and words could accurately capture how she felt. Wanting it to happen didn't mean it did, unfortunately. "Because I feel like I have to protect her" was what she settled for saying.

"From me," he added to the end of her sentence. With a wave of the hand, he said, "And we're back to the point you've been trying to avoid all night: you don't trust me with –"

"No, I don't trust _myself_ with this."

Finally.

What she had wanted to say was _finally_ out there. No, she thought, not what she _wanted_ to tell him but rather what, apparently, needed to be said. The words were not what she'd expected from herself, the truth both obvious and confusing to her.

Looking at it now, she thought it was clear that all of the second guessing had been proof that she didn't trust her own judgment. Over the years, she had been told repeatedly that she treated House exceptionally well, that she was blind when it came to him. From the beginning she had purposely ignored those comments, but when the matter involved her own daughter, the influence of those beliefs came out. And why shouldn't it? Rachel was far more important than any case or patient. Knowing that, Cuddy didn't distrust him as much as she worried that she was letting her affection for him, her need for _him_ rule everything else.

She hadn't seen it before, but now it made sense.

"You aren't sure you can judge whether or not I'm being honest," he said, reading between the lines.

"I don't know."

"Then what are you afraid of?"

"I don't know."

His eyes flashed bright with renewed irritation. "All right, let's go through the list: monsters under your bed? Thunderstorms? Somehow, somewhere there's a duck that –"

"No. Would you stop?"

"Sure, if you answer the question. What are you afraid of?"

"I don't know." She laughed nervously as she repeated herself, the giggle breathless and without joy. "I – I'm afraid –"

"Of _what_?"

"That I'm – or that I _might_ – be trusting you because it's what I'm used to doing and not because it's the right thing."

He couldn't say that it was a ridiculous fear. It was clear in his mind that it was definitely possible. After all, he'd practically just _asked_ her to trust him with Rachel, because it was normal for her to do so. But that possibility had remained just that, a possibility; it was not reality, and given how reluctant she was to include him in her life, he thought it was unlikely to ever become real.

"You're not doing that," he said reassuringly.

Saying that though… it made him realize that her point had not negated his own.

"But even if you were to," he continued, feeling compelled to bring the matter up. "Even if you let me be in Rachel's life because it's what you're used to doing, who cares? What is it about me that you think isn't –"

"_This_ isn't about you."

"Uh huh."

"These are my shortcomings."

"Which involve _me_," he pointed out. "So tell me what the real issue is here."

He tried to sound as nonchalant about it as possible. Truth be told, however, he was afraid to hear what she would say. The flaw within that kept this relationship from progressing was one he wanted named, but that didn't make it easy to take. That her hesitation was born from something in him bothered him. But there was no avoiding it. And if he had to learn what the issue was, he wanted to do it as ruthlessly quick as possible. He didn't think he could handle her hedging out of kindness.

Unfortunately that didn't inspire honesty from her. Shaking her head, she denied it. "There's nothing –"

"Obviously there's something or else this wouldn't be an issue." She started to disagree with him, but he cut her off. "_No_, you don't get to pretend like this isn't happening. You can say you don't know and avoid it all you want, but there's _something_ that is making you hesitate. And whether you want to admit it or not, this is _my_ life too. If I'm doing something wrong, I have a right to know."

She went quiet. He didn't know if that meant she was considering the problem or merely letting him talk himself into exhaustion. But he would do his best to ensure that it was the former.

"See here's the thing: this is clearly a problem. You keep it to yourself, I think you don't want to make this work."

"And how do you figure that?" she asked, obviously confused by his assertion.

"We are at a stand still right now. Nothing's going to change until… something else does. If there's something that's stopping you from taking that next step, I'm pretty sure I have a right to know. Since it involves me," he explained, his voice bordering on churlish.

He didn't intend to be that way, but he found himself increasingly agitated by the dynamics between them. All he wanted was to get to the root of the problem. But every time he thought, if only for a second, that they might be getting somewhere, the issue sprouted new pathways, new things for him to contend with.

Having spent the previous night and then all day taking care of Rachel, he was in no condition for a protracted conversation. There was no avoiding it, especially now that he was neck deep in it. They'd started discussing the matter, so now it had to be seen through. There were no other options. He just wished he had the patience to get through it without killing anyone.

"If I'm not doing something right," he told her, his muscles tense as he tried to regain some semblance of calm. "You should tell me. Keep it to yourself, and how is that going to make anything better? Hmm? You don't tell me, I can't _fix_ it."

"Because it's that simple."

"It _is_," he insisted. "I know what I want, and if there's something I'm doing that's preventing me from getting it, then that needs to change."

Cuddy could see the straight line of logic – and despised him for it. He had never been a practitioner of evolution; a person was who they were, and nothing would change that was his firmly held belief – a belief that she was well aware of. But House had also always held that people were first and foremost selfish creatures, that they did what they wanted out of self-interest and would always act in such a way to benefit themselves. Now he was faced with a conflict between his personal philosophies: did he change and work towards getting what he wanted or did he remain the same and lose everything?

It was obvious what he had chosen.

And she was not flattered by the decision.

Perhaps she should have been. The obstinate Gregory House changing to please the woman he loved – there was something romantic about that notion, that he would do whatever it took to be in her good graces. At least, there could have been romance in the sentiment. Instead she saw calculation.

"This is about getting what you want," she said with dismay.

He cocked his head to the side, as though he didn't understand her point. "That's… a bad thing to you?"

She shrugged. "It feels like you're willing to say or do whatever is necessary to –"

"I _am_."

"Then I guess it doesn't seem genuine."

The words felt right to say. They felt like the truth.

"It makes me think that you're doing this, because you think it's what I want."

"Pretty sure I'd have to be in a vegetative state to think –"

"What I mean is you know that this is the way things go. The second you moved in here, you knew that at some point, you would need to start caring about my daughter. I've told you that. Several times this weekend even," she pointed out. "You knew that you would have to show interest in having a relationship with her eventually."

"And you think I'm lying. You think my saying that I would change whatever was necessary to get you to trust me is proof that I'm… what? Just trying to appease you?"

She hesitated not for the first time that evening. "I don't know. And I'm _afraid_ that I can't tell if you're just giving me what I want or –"

"_Yeah_, there's not a chance in Hell that that's actually what's going on," he interrupted snidely. "Forgetting for a second that this moment in the conversation would suggest otherwise, we can both agree: you're not an idiot. If I were _faking_ it, you would know. And you _know_ that if I were doing that, I'd probably be doing a much better job than I have been of convincing you that I'm not a complete failure when it comes to Rachel."

She was about to say that she didn't think he was a complete failure, but he kept talking before she had a chance.

"If I'd planned this out, I would have _eased_ into it. Slowly gotten close to her and then gradually –"

"You've thought about this," she said in realization.

"_Today_ I thought about it," he clarified instantly. "Looking back on how this weekend went, I could – can – see why you would have your reservations, and I thought that I could have been a lot _gentler_ about everything."

She was doubtful. "Of course you –"

"You really think I would do that? I would lie about how I feel about Rachel. The man you live with, have sex with, _love_ is the kind of person who would think nothing of using your daughter."

No. That was her first thought – _no_. She might have been more tolerant of his flaws than most; those accusations might have been true, but she would not have been fooled by him if he were capable of doing that. And he might have been incredibly screwed up but _no_. Hearing him say it, she could feel herself realizing that her fear was unfounded.

Things weren't perfect, but he hadn't been making all of this up.

"Of course not," she said with a sigh. "No, that's not what happened. I'm sorry."

Last night, he had dealt with her resistance poorly. And in doing so, he had created a mess. Now he had the opportunity to rub in her mistake, to take offense to what she had almost convinced herself of. He had the option, and it was truly tempting. But it wouldn't solve anything. She would become defensive or worse; she might take his pleasure in her error as a sign that he was trying to fool her. Then they'd be right back where they started, which he absolutely did not want.

So although he wasn't entirely interested in the sympathetic route, it was what he chose. Scooting closer to her, he bowed his head. Lips pressed to her collarbone, he gave her two soft kisses to her warm skin.

When he straightened his spine once more, he told her, "This wasn't what you expected. It's not what I thought would happen either. I thought you would have to _force_ me to care."

And that was the truth. For a good part of this weekend even, he had set himself apart from Rachel. He'd taken care of her, but there had been a wall, something to separate himself from her, from any sort of relationship with her. He'd done his best to ward off any feelings for her – not because he hated the kid, but because looking at himself, he knew that he was not deserving of anything from her. Just as he had never been good enough for her mother, he had believed, still believed, that he was not worthy. In the end though, that didn't seem to matter much. Regardless of his intentions, the pressure of the weekend had slowly forced him closer to Rachel. Now there was no backing off, not even if he wanted to.

"But we're here. And you can't pretend like this isn't happening just because it didn't happen the way you wanted it to." He wasn't trying to be harsh, though he conceded that he might have been. "This... is just the way things are. You – _we_ – have to accept that."

Cuddy looked over at him, her eyes surveying his features. "If you're not ready –"

"Don't use me as an excuse. I might be taken aback by all of this –"

"This being your, what, feelings for Rachel?" He nodded his head and said nothing, which seemed to upset her. "You can't even say it, can you?"

"Pretty sure I articulated it last night," he pointed out. Reaching over he grabbed one of her hands. His fingers wedged between hers, he hoped the small bit of contact would keep the conversation calm. The last thing he wanted was for things to gear up once more, for the fight to continue when resolution might be in sight.

"I don't have a problem saying it," he explained. But that didn't seem exactly true, so he amended the statement. "All right, maybe a little bit of a problem – demonstrating it anyway. But I know exactly what's going on, and I have no trouble admitting to myself or to _you_ what it is that I want. If I'm not saying it, it's because I know you have no intention of giving me any of it. Because you are _not_ comfortable with any of this."

She took it as an accusation. "Well, I apologize for that," she said tartly. "After years of you showing no interest in her, I should have prepared myself for you to suddenly change your mind."

"I didn't say that."

"But that's what you want. You've decided you're ready to move forward, and now I have to be too. You're mad because I'm not ready to –"

"_No_. I can handle you _not being ready_. If you had said _that_, that would have been fine. But treating me like I'm lying? Testing me?" he said with a nose scrunched in disgust. "Telling me that you trust me enough to raise Rachel if something happens to you – and then 'L.O.L. Just kidding. I just wanted to see how you'd react'?" He glared at her. "You didn't need to do _that_."

He let go of her hand and moved away from her. He reached for another slice of pizza, perhaps to give her the impression that he was simply hungry and not hurt. But Cuddy wasn't fooled.

He _was_ hurt.

Offended by her behavior.

That wasn't exactly a revelation. The second things had gone wrong, she'd known he was upset. It wasn't like he'd tried to hide it or she'd been so stupid as to miss it. And she couldn't even say she didn't understand how deep that pain had gone with him. She'd suspected that she'd screwed up spectacularly from the beginning after all. But watching him now, she recognized…

She had cleaved a gaping wound into their relationship. He'd been hurt, and she'd seen that, but what she had failed to realize was just how hard it would be to come back from it. That had always been a possibility, of course; she hadn't been ignorant to that potential effect. But now she could _feel _how much worse she'd made things. The difference between idle thought and actual experience, it was impossible to deny the horror of her behavior.

And watching him miserably stuff his mouth full of pizza, she wasn't even tempted to pretend she hadn't screwed up. His behavior was giving her all the answers she'd needed. This was, she was gradually beginning to see, not about being denied what he wanted. It wasn't anger at her for trying to trick him.

He was mad, because he _wanted_ her to offer him that place in Rachel's life.

He _wanted_ to be her legal guardian if something had happened.

He wanted that, because… as unlikely as it was, as nonsensical as it was, he _cared_ about Rachel.

"Oh God," Cuddy uttered, instantly capturing his attention.

He smirked before shoveling the rest of the pizza into his mouth. "Just getting that, huh."

She didn't even respond to the quip. She just apologized. "I'm sorry." There was a pause in the hopes that he would say all was forgiven, but he remained quiet. "I'm so sorry. I didn't – I had – I…."

There didn't seem to be words that would make her mistake palatable. No excuse would explain her behavior in a way that would make him more forgiving. Her reasons were ones he no doubt already knew, ones he surely rejected with disdain or believed without any sympathy for her. He didn't need to hear them now. Which left her with… what exactly?

She didn't know what to do. And afraid that he would take her silence for calculation (which she guessed it was), she refused to waste any more time.

"What I do?" she asked.

He pursed his lips together in thought. "I say we start with a light tea bagging followed up with a tossed salad and finished up with a Brazilian flapjack to –"

"Anything that involves me keeping my pants on?"

"Why would you want to do that?"

He was smiling, amused. But she didn't take his behavior at face value. There was no way this was over. He hadn't forgiven her – there was _no_ way he had done that so quickly.

"You're still mad," she said tactfully, knowingly.

He was no longer smiling. "No."

But Cuddy didn't believe him. "I have a hard time –"

"Fine. I'm gonna hold on a little….. It's probably gonna fester a bit." He was being matter of fact, not ominous or punishing. He had no intention of wielding that inevitability like a weapon; after everything they'd been through this weekend, this _evening_, they needed peace. And he wasn't going to deny that this would follow them, but he wasn't interested in belaboring the point either. She was just starting to see his way, and he wouldn't jeopardize that for anything.

She didn't deserve the torture of his stubborn anger either.

Well… all right, maybe there was part of him that thought she did, proof alone that he was still a little pissed. But he did his best – _would_ do his best – not to act on that impulse. If he did that, there was no way their relationship could last. If he did that, he would be denying her the same courtesies she had once given him.

How many times had it been when he was unprepared for the natural progress in their relationship? How many instances were there of him screwing everything up and her forgiving him for being unable to move forward? There must have been a dozen moments this weekend alone, where she had, ironically enough, reassured him and tried to convince him that he could eventually be good for Rachel.

As it turned out, Cuddy hadn't been nearly as convinced as she had led him to believe. The need to encourage him had made her wary. His reluctance had bred suspicion or at least doubt, and now he needed to demonstrate that that had been nerves, _fear_, and nothing else.

He had to prove he could do the job. And he would never be able to do that if he spent all of his time punishing Cuddy for what she had done. That would just make her angry, even less trusting.

"We'll get past it," he said simply, knowing that that was the only thing to do. All other roads led to breaking up, which he didn't want. Which he knew _she_ didn't want. "We've done it before."

She bit her lip before saying, "It's never this screwed up before."

"No," he agreed. "I think we can both accept that you've done an exceptional job at reaching a new low here." There was bite to the words, something he hadn't intended. Within seconds he pointed out, "See? A little bit of holding onto it. But I'll get over it."

Cuddy nodded her head. He wasn't sure if she believed him. Perhaps that was asking too much from her right now, seeing as how guilt ridden she was. For that reason, he wouldn't push her; he wouldn't accuse her of not _really_ believing him. It might have been true, but it wouldn't do him any good to say it out loud.

So he kept quiet and simply motioned for her to move closer to him.

In her response was the proof that he had gotten through to her. There was no hesitation on her part. She wasn't overtly eager, of course, so as not to appear desperate for his touch. But the lack of reluctance made it clear that she was interested in the comfort he was offering.

Shuffling towards him, she didn't stop until she was on his couch cushion. One of his arms wrapping around her waist, he pulled her close. Her knees drew up under her body, and she rested her head on his chest. The second she pressed her cheek to him, she said, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. We've covered that."

Her chin rubbed against him as she shook her head. "Am I boring you with this?"

"Absolutely," he said, hugging her tightly against him. "I mean, if you're going to say the same thing over and over, I'd _prefer_ something along the lines of 'House's dick is –"

"You're turning this conversation into jokes about your penis."

"Oh my dick is no joke."

The sound she made was a mix of a groan and a laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"All right. I'll be serious," he said. His mood turned somber as he explained, "I don't need you to keep apologizing. I get it. You were _amazingly_ and _spectacularly _wrong, and now you're sorry about that. I understand. But if you we're going to move on, you can't bring it up every –"

"So you just want to pretend like none of this ever happened?" she asked, craning her head back so she could look at him.

"Hardly. I just don't need a reminder every minute. That's all."

"Okay." She had no choice but to agree. In her opinion, there couldn't be enough apologies offered. They had quickly gone through the angry stage, and part of Cuddy worried that they were rushing through as to avoid considering what her behavior had meant. But even if they really were moving on, she still felt the need to let him know how awful she felt. As she had been the one to mess things up however, she knew she had to do what he wanted. It was not her call to do something that he was uncomfortable with; she had done _that_ enough already. "I just wish there was something I could do to –"

"Make _you_ feel better?" he supplied calmly and without malice.

"_No_. To make you feel better."

"You're not going to fix this by irritating me with your narcissism. Although I know you think that works… not gonna happen." One of his hands wandering to her ass, he said, "On the other hand, you haven't taken your regular dose of birth control. You had to take the morning after –"

"I'm pretty sure those two things are related."

"Of course." He patted her bottom patronizingly. "And I'm thinking the period you have after that is gonna be _terrible_."

She groaned. "I'm trying not to think about it."

He ignored her and finished, "And knowing that that's happening to you will be of great – really _great_ – comfort to me personally." She glared at him, triggering an additional remark. "After I buy a _raft_ for Rachel and me to –"

"Is there something inside of you that insists on being immature in –"

"Are you seriously asking that question right now?"

She sighed. "No. I clearly know the answer."

"Exactly." But he must have felt uncomfortable with leaving things there, because he asked, "You want me to be serious?"

Truthfully Cuddy didn't mind things taking on a lighter tone. Again, she worried that they were rushing to get to the other side, hurrying past their feelings of anger and mistrust so that they wouldn't have to consider what any of it meant. Rationally she feared that was happening. But selfishly she had no problem feeling, if only for a moment, that things were okay between them. For that reason, she was tempted to tell him no. She didn't want to continue this fight, didn't want to be confronted once more with her failures as a lover.

And yet, in spite of that, she was not ready to move on. Her gaze catching sight of the paperwork he'd thrown onto the ground, she suddenly needed to know.

Not answering the question, she asked, "Are you going to sign them?" She looked back at him again to see what his answer would be.

"You don't want me to."

"So?" Somehow that didn't seem to matter much anymore. After what she'd done, what she wanted seemed irrelevant.

"I could sign. Right now, I'm sure I could do just about anything I wanted, and you'd let me."

"That's not –"

"Trust me. It's true. But if I _act_ on that, at some point, you're going to resent me for it. And if I use this to force your hand with Rachel, you'll never forgive me – and you'll never accept it. And maybe I could convince myself that I could live with that, but knowing that you would feel that way?" He shook his head. "It's not what either of us want if I've had to _force_ you to give me what I want."

He was right. If he made himself the potential guardian for Rachel, Cuddy would be unhappy about that. He had a point. But… he wasn't insisting on signing now, because he thought that she would eventually come to her senses. She wasn't sure that would happen.

No, she no longer doubted his honesty here. He'd more than proved that he cared about Rachel; despite Cuddy's misgivings, the truth was clear. The issue was not about trusting that he wanted the best for her daughter.

The problem was momentum – or the lack of it.

He was doing the right thing, the polite thing by backing off. He had said he'd regretted pushing her this weekend, and she doubted that for the sake of his own pride he would pressure her in this regard. She feared that would be the problem them though. If he didn't force the matter, would she? Would she willingly go in that direction?

The answer seemed to be obvious. If she'd had the desire to share her daughter with House, she would have taken those steps already. At least, if she'd had the ability to _act_ on that desire, she would have anyway. But instead… _this_ had happened. And she feared that, if left to her own devices, nothing would change.

"I need a date," she said suddenly, knowing that she would require incentive. "I'm sorry. If that's where this is headed, I need a date."

"Because you'll never get there on your own."

She nodded her head. "No." The truth was harsher uttered aloud than it had been solely in her head. "I want to think otherwise," she explained, trying to soften the blow. "But I'm worried that…. I need that push."

"Okay." All in all, he seemed to be taking the request well. He seemed to be taking all of this well. Maybe that made sense, she thought; he was on the cusp of getting what he wanted, as long as he didn't upset her.

At least that was what she believed until he said, "You have until my birthday."

_Then_ she thought he was picking the first conceivable date available to force her into something she wasn't ready for. As though he were only paying lip service to her insecurities, he was determined to make this happen as quickly as he could – that was what it felt like to her.

Frustrated she muttered, "You don't waste any time, do you?"

"You said you needed a push."

"Yeah, a _push_. Not a –"

"That's not how this works," he interrupted. "You want my help, you don't get to choose the terms. And if this is really supposed to happen, the longer you take, the harder this is going to be for everyone."

She understood that. Her hesitation created friction between them and, though he would probably never say it, doubt in him. The more time she needed, the worse it would be for them. And that was to say nothing of how it would affect Rachel. It was hard for Cuddy to admit, but if she thought about it from Rachel's perspective, she thought her reluctance had made or would make her daughter all the more resistant to House's affections. If Cuddy were suspicious of House's behavior, then of course, that would alter how Rachel felt.

_But_ that didn't mean Cuddy could just force her way to acceptance within a matter of months.

"I know that," she told him. "It's just –"

"Soon? I don't think so. If you know that I mean what I said about Rachel – and clearly you _do_ – then all you have to do is let me be involved in her life. And since that's not _exactly_ a brand new concept for us, it's really just a matter of _degree_."

She shifted in his arms. Doing her best to roll over onto her back, she was able to eye him with greater ease. "Maybe. But you're acting like the number of degrees is small when –"

"Isn't it? The fact is I've been in Rachel's life for years now. Whether we planned it or not, I've taken on that role in her life."

He was carefully avoiding saying the word, father. Whether he was doing that because she didn't want to hear him say it or because he couldn't, she didn't know.

"I'm not asking to adopt her. I'm not –"

"No, I'd just be changing my will," she retorted, not thinking there was much of a difference.

"I want the will. Don't get me wrong. I want it. But that is the… inevitable result of something much smaller." Immediately he conceded, "Doesn't seem like it, but you just have to make a _little_ room for me."

"And if I can't do that in less than three months?"

Although she knew she would have to try to meet that impossible deadline, she wanted to be aware of the consequences when she didn't make it. She forced herself to think _when_, not _if_. He might have been doing his best to minimize the task at hand, an act of kindness on his part to be sure. But Cuddy wouldn't allow herself to mentally do the same. She couldn't afford to do so, which was why she needed to know what she would face if she failed.

In all honesty, she expected a grim answer to her question.

Instead though he remained calm. "Then we'll have a version of this conversation – except then I'll be drunk."

"And what a happy birthday that will be."

"You don't let me lick icing off your ass, so technically by default, all my birthdays are unhappy ones."

She smiled in spite of herself. "You're ridiculous."

"So will you?" he asked undeterred.

"Will I what?"

"Let me lick icing off –"

"_No_."

"Why not?"

She shot him a dirty look. "This may surprise you, but I don't get off on you drooling all over my –"

"That's what you say, but then you wear those skirts and –"

"Who says I do that for you? Or anyone for that matter?"

"Because I know you. But if you'd prefer something else, I could always lick the frosting off your pussy," he offered.

"If you think I'm going to give myself a yeast infection for a few minutes of fun –"

"Nipples?" he asked almost desperately.

"Okay," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. Under normal circumstances, she might have been content with the proposed act, turned on even; there was absolutely nothing wrong with House's tongue on – well, just about any part of her body. But right now, it just felt wrong to be having this conversation now.

Were they really discussing this? That was what she asked herself then. Were they really talking about it _now_, when they'd been fighting about Rachel, about their future?

"So then it won't be a completely unhappy birthday for me."

"Why are we talking about this?"

He didn't offer her an answer. He just said somberly, "We can go back to the other thing."

"We need to."

"Then by all means, do that. Although there's not really much left to discuss."

"It's three months – not even."

He scratched his beard in contemplation. "You want more time."

"_Yes_."

"Then you'll have it, _after_ –"

"No," she gritted out with frustration. "That's not enough time, not even close. And there's no way that you _don't_ realize that."

"You think so?"

He was toying with her was her initial impression; he was tormenting her, needling her by being as uncooperative as he knew how to be. In and of itself, that was hardly new behavior. Making things harder for her was, for better or worse, one of his favorite activities. He liked getting under her skin, enjoyed teasing her. Usually, as frustrated as it could make her, she had fun with that dynamic too. She gave as good as she got, and on some days, their back and forth was the most bearable part of her life. But there was another side to that behavior, a darker aspect. Sometimes, when he was mad, he would do the exact same things – tease her in an attempt to hurt her. And right now his intentional ignorance was obvious, but the reason for it was not.

Was he trying to guide their relationship back to normal? Or was he purposely trying to make this harder for her?

Without answers, she found herself infuriated – just as he probably wanted.

"Why are you making this so difficult?" she asked, sitting up. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Do I?"

"_Stop_. Just _stop_ it." She pulled away from him but only a little. Retreating completely would be melodramatic, and he would surely accuse her of that should she behave that way. She stayed close to avoid any more of his taunting. "I'm tired, and I'm in no mood to play games. If you're going to keep behaving this way, I'm going to bed."

"Don't do that." He reached over and stroked her cheek. With only a modicum of sarcasm, he explained, "_I_ don't sleep well when you're pissed at me, which means I'll be up all night – and bored, which means I'll be tempted to wake _you_ and then you'll be up all night, so –"

"Then act like an adult."

He wanted to point out that he hadn't been the one who'd gone to a lawyer and created papers to dangle in front of him as bait. He wanted to ask who had been the one to act out on that idiotic, childish plan – and then relish in the shame she would surely feel. But doing that would in fact turn him into the immature man she was accusing him of being. By virtue of his own behavior, he would make her right. And he wasn't willing to cede the moral high ground yet.

"I am," he said calmly.

"Then you're not listening to –"

"No, I am."

"Then _why_ are you so insistent on ignoring me when I say that I'm going to need more than three months?" she asked with accusation in her voice. "Why won't you budge on this?"

It was simple. "Because I'm not the one who did _that_," he told her, pointing to the paperwork lying on the floor. He didn't mean to sound as disgusted as he did, but there was no helping it, he supposed. Although he was willing to forgive her for it, he didn't think he would ever look upon the action with anything less than absolute revulsion. It just wasn't possible.

Cuddy, however, seemed to have trouble seeing that difference. "So you haven't forgiven me." She was hesitant, quiet, filled with remorse that stopped him from calling her an idiot.

"I do," he said with a sigh.

"No. You just don't want to fight anymore. You're still mad."

"I'm really not," he insisted gently. "I'm not mad, not really. But forgive me if I don't think your judgment is very good when it comes to this topic."

She was visibly surprised. "You think... what, I'm lying or... _wrong_ when I say that I need more time?"

"Here's what's going to happen if I give you six months, a year, whatever." He aimed to be as academic about it as possible, to reason through the argument. He felt that he would have better success that way. By avoiding being (and he hated to put it this way) _emotional_, he increased the chances of her actually believing what he had to say. "There are two things. One, at some point in the next couple of days, you're going to be so fed up with being wrong that you're going to turn this around in your head and blame me."

"That's –"

"Insane? A little bit, yeah. But you're not used to being wrong, especially when it comes to Rachel, and you're going to get mad that I pushed things before you were comfortable with me doing that. So... yeah, at some point, you're going to look for some reason to blame this on me. It's just a fact," he insisted in a way that he hoped didn't come across as being too arrogant. "And the way you're going to do that is pick up on some thing you don't like about me, and then you're going to let that fester. 'I didn't trust House then because he likes to make sex jokes in front of Rachel' – something along those lines."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm pretty sure I already said that I don't like you doing that in front of her."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. This time though instead of complaining, you'll just keep it to yourself. Let it grow into something bigger, and if I give you enough time to think it through, when we get to that point where you reconsider my place in Rachel's life, you're going to use it as a reason to say no. Again."

"Pretending that that's true –"

"Oh, it is."

"Whatever." It wasn't an agreement, but it was as close as he was going to get, he knew. "What makes you think that's not going to happen in three months?"

"Because in three months, I have a better chance of talking you out of it." He looked down at that sad truth. The fact was, he was going to have to convince her again. She would no longer doubt that this was what he wanted, but she would absolutely need proof that he would be good for her daughter. And House was more than willing to meet that challenge, given what was at stake; he would do his best to give them all the proof they needed, to make it clear that this was not a fleeting whim he'd acted on to secure his position in Cuddy's life.

He just wished he didn't have to.

But there was no avoiding it, he told himself firmly. And if there was no way out of it, then the only thing he could do now was move forward.

Turning back to her, he explained, "Three months, your insanity will define the problem, but you won't have so much time to come up with thousands of grievances I'll have to address." She glared at him, clearly offended by his words, and he felt that she probably had a right to be; he dialed the rhetoric back. "I don't blame you for that. Just saying, the longer we give ourselves time to talk ourselves out of it, the more likely it is that we will."

She leaned back on the couch. He was right. His birthday seemed so close, but there was plenty of time for her to have doubts, to act on those doubts. That also meant that there would be many opportunities for House to change his mind. If – well, more than likely, _when_ they had a big fight some time between now and then, she would distrust his abilities and so would he. Issues would surely occur in that short time period, and if they weren't careful, those things could completely derail the step they were trying hard to take. If they waited a few years... if he gave her more time to get used to the idea, who knew what would happen?

"Second," he continued. "We give ourselves more time, then we're going to _take_ our time. And this is just a guess on my part, but I'm thinking that the last thing we need right now is to make this change as slowly as possible. If we're going to do this, then it needs to happen. For Rachel's sake."

No doubt he had expected her to fight this point as well. But to be honest, she was too surprised to put up much of a disagreement. Her eyes widening with shock, she couldn't help but say, "I didn't think I'd ever hear you say that. 'For Rachel's sake.'"

"Things change."

She shook her head with disbelief – not in what he was saying but in the fact that _he_ was the one making the argument that change happened. He said "things," but the implication was that people changed; _he_ had changed.

Looking at him though, she could see that he had done that. He _had_ changed. And then came the empty feeling of loneliness, the cool knowledge that he had stopped playing games while she apparently had not. He had embraced the happiness, the _family_, he wanted. He would have signed those papers today if she'd let him. He had moved on from where they'd started, and she was alone in her distrust.

Or not.

He pulled her close again, not giving her the choice to move away as his face buried in her shoulder and an arm wrapped around her waist.

"You'll get there."

There was no doubt in his words, comfort found only in his assuredness.

"And if I don't know how?"

He placed a kiss on her shoulder. "You do."

"Do I?" Two days ago she would have firmly believed that she did, that if things weren't progressing as they should have, it was House's fault. Now she was no longer sure.

"Of course," he said, pulling away from her once more. "Let's practice." She thought he was kidding at first; he could see the soft smile and the belief that this was a joke in her eyes. But it wasn't. "I'm going to tell you something, and you're _not_ going to reject it off hand." Before she could object, he said, "I think Rachel needs a new school."

She was obviously surprised by the sudden change in conversation. "What?"

"If we're going to get to a place where you trust me with Rachel, you're going to have to start letting me help you make the important decisions involving her."

"And you think she needs to go to a different school and that right now is the time to have that conversation?"

He shot her an unhappy look. "You do realize that those kids who made fun of her go to her school, yeah?" It was clear that she hadn't by the expression on her face. But he wrote that off as exhaustion, not stupidity on her part. "You can't let her grow up with those idiots."

He was thankful she didn't respond right away. The way the muscles in her jaw clenched made it obvious that she wanted to outright reject what he was saying. That she wasn't was promising.

"And… what guarantee is there that a new school would make things better?" she asked after a moment. "Let's say I pull her out, put her some place else. There's no telling that things will be any different. Those kids might be just as mean, and what do we have to show for it? She's in a new school, with no friends… a year behind because she's _failing_ now and no one will let her continue as –"

"Would that be so bad?" Realizing the question was vague, he added, "Not the no friends part. But like you said, she's failing. _Maybe_ it's not a bad thing if she has to repeat."

He wasn't stupid enough to say that Rachel clearly needed the extra time. But Cuddy heard the words anyway.

"She's not dumb," she nearly yelled.

"No. She just has the misfortune of you rushing her through –"

"You're talking about the cutoff date."

Folding her arms across her chest, she couldn't believe he was going back to _that_. He'd opposed it when the issue had first come up. But when she'd made it clear that she wouldn't listen to him, he had dropped the matter. She thought now that she should have known better.

He thought he was right. And when he believed himself to be right, he _never_ let it go. There might have been a moment where he seemed okay with the incorrect party winning – but that never lasted.

As he was proving now.

"Those kids make fun of her, because they know she's not supposed to be there."

"They do not," Cuddy said with a scoff. "That date was _arbitrary_, and the school –"

"They _let_ you do that, because you have money. And because when you tried to convince them that putting Rachel into a classroom she was obviously too young to be in, you were more than likely wearing that push bra –"

"I was not."

"Which can make rational thinking awfully difficult. I should know."

"That's not what happened."

"Maybe not," he conceded easily. "But that's beside the point." She gave him a dirty look that hinted at all of the things she would do to him if he didn't get to the point soon. "Either way, you got her in that classroom before she was supposed to be there – and it _shows_. You tried this, but it hasn't worked. She's not ready for the material and –"

"I told you: she's not stupid. I know you assume anyone who is not _you_ is a complete –"

"No, she's not. But she's also not _you_," he said in a firm voice.

She didn't understand what he meant. "What is that –"

"Your mother pushed you your entire life." Instantly Cuddy cringed; if he was trying to prove his point, comparing her to her _mother_ was absolutely the worst way to go about it. But she didn't have time to object before he added, "She pressured you, made you work harder than you would have otherwise, and you... did well under those circumstances. Which," he added. "Is why I know that the less time you have to sit with this decision about Rachel, the better chance I have. You thrive with that stress."

"You're oversimplifying," she said, feeling as though she had done everything but _thrive _under the stress of this weekend.

"A little, sure."

"And I am _not_ my mother."

"No. I didn't mean that. It's just – my point is: she's not like that at all. She does not do well when you push her. She can't even put her pants on if you let on that she needs to hurry," he accused in a way that suggested to her that something along those lines had happened today. But if it had, he wasn't complaining now, as he didn't elaborate any further. He just said, "She's not a moron. She's just not ready. And by forcing her, you're putting her in a classroom with a bunch of jackasses who are going to assume that she _is_ stupid because she isn't prepared to learn. _And_ by putting her through that, you're turning school into a place she will _never_ want to go to."

"That's... ridiculous."

She didn't really believe that. If she'd pushed Rachel before she was prepared, then the rest of his argument was simply logical. Cuddy wasn't sure he was right that her daughter wasn't ready for school, but there was enough doubt in her mind that the denial she uttered was hardly felt internally. If she spoke at all, it was simply to stop him from continuing. Exhausted she thought he had made his point clear; further discussion on his part would seem as though he were belaboring on the topic, attacking her over it. And if she felt attacked, then they would descend into another fight. She had denied to avoid any further disagreement.

They had done that enough already.

He must have understood how she felt, because immediately he stopped. Instead of trying to convince her further, he said, "Maybe it is." It was obvious he didn't believe that, but he was saying it to avoid angering her. "Just… think about it."

"That's it." She was doubtful that that was all, but he nodded his head. "You're going to compare me to my mother –"

"I wasn't trying to do that."

"And say that I should have Rachel switch schools and repeat grades and then that's it? You're done?"

"Yeah." He ran his fingers through her hair. "I said I wanted to be a part of her life, and I do. Which means I get to have a say – at least eventually, so like I said: this is practice."

He was being awfully calm, suspiciously so. Even if he meant what he was saying, she doubted he would remain as understanding and patient when she didn't take his advice.

"And if I don't do what you want?" she asked.

"Then you don't."

"And you're not going to be mad?" The doubt couldn't have been more obvious. "You won't accuse me of purposely disregarding your suggestions."

"I'll make that accusation if you do. If you actually consider what I'm saying, that will be obvious, because when you do whatever the hell it is that you decide to do, you'll have a reason behind it."

She didn't think it would be that painless. But frankly, if he wanted to be delusional, for now, she would let him. It wouldn't do anyone any good to get mad now about it; she didn't believe he would be nearly as understanding as he thought, but all she could now was wait and see what would happen, she guessed.

"Fine. Are we done?" she asked, standing up. She didn't mean to cut things off so abruptly, but she knew that if she stayed in the conversation for much longer, all wishes to be patient would be meaningless.

But House wasn't quick to let her go. Reaching for her hand, he didn't let her get very far. "Just think about it."

"Okay."

He didn't ask if she meant it, but the look in his eyes suggested that he was wondering.

"I said okay."

"All right." He must have realized that the words sounded dismissive, because he hastily added, "I mean that. I believe you."

"Okay."

She thought he would let her go. But what he did was simply change the subject.

"How do you feel?" he asked suddenly.

In her opinion, the answer to that question was obvious. "I'm tired, House. I want to go to bed."

"I know. But if you weren't feeling well, I was going to offer to bring you some tea or ginger ale or whatever you want."

"Oh."

It was the last thing she expected after the last twenty-four hours. All night he had been trying so hard to undo some of the cruel words he had said the previous evening; he'd made the effort to be kind, but somehow she assumed that the second the conversation about Rachel was over, he would cease being nice. He wouldn't be _mean_, but the sales pitch would be done with; things would go back to the way they usually were. Apparently, he had other plans.

And right now, she was okay with going along with it. She had no desire to question or suspect. If he wanted to keep the act going, she would let him.

Her free hand rubbing the back of her neck, she said, "Okay. I guess I could drink some tea."

"The ginger kind?" he asked, his nose scrunched up in mild disgust.

"Yeah."

"Okay," he said instantly. "I'll make it. You go lie down."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

She didn't wait around for him to change his mind. If he wanted to take care of her, by all means he could.

But in walking away from him, she found herself fixated on their conversation. Letting him become Rachel's potential legal guardian was a terrifying prospect, one that made her anxious with the comprehension of its inevitability. House had made it clear that it was what he wanted; of that Cuddy had no doubt. And as she walked down the hallway towards their bedroom, she understood that he would get what he wanted. Eventually, as he often did, he would have his way. Her indecision was very real, but at some point, she would be unable to deny him what he wanted, what was best for all of them.

The fact that it _was_ what was best for them was the truly frightening part of it all. Making him a permanent part of her family was the right thing to do, not because he wanted it, but because they would _benefit_ from him having that title. At the moment that was hard to accept, but she wouldn't deny it.

She _couldn't_ pretend like it wasn't happening or wasn't going to happen. That would just make it harder in the end to accept the inevitable.

But knowing that, she still found herself wary of taking steps in that direction. House had called it practice, as though anything they did right now was merely abstract and would have no impact on their lives. Changing Rachel's school, however, holding her back a grade or at least allowing the education system to do it... that seemed as real as it got. And Cuddy didn't know if it was that thought or the act of brushing her teeth that did it, but it was at that moment, toothbrush in hand, that the nausea hit her fully.

She immediately spit into the sink. The taste of mint was too strong on her taste buds, and she feared what would happen if she kept at this basic task. Quickly she rinsed out her mouth. Palm scooping water from the tap, she tried to calm herself down. She wouldn't get sick; she wouldn't have to make any important decisions now.

But that was a lie.

Admittedly she managed to straighten back up without seeing her dinner once more. She was able to dry her face off with only the slightest feeling of sickness roiling through her. And she thought that if she could just get in bed, she would be okay on that front. The situation with Rachel on the other hand...

That wasn't going to go away any time soon.

Cuddy again told herself she didn't need to reach any conclusions tonight. But again, she knew that was a lie. House had been right when he'd said that the sooner they made a decision, the easier it would be for all of them. That was especially true in this situation; the sooner a choice was made, the more time Cuddy would have to comfort her daughter. After all, if Rachel was going to spend the rest of her school days with the same children who had taunted her, that would take some smoothing over.

Or a lot of it.

Crawling into bed, Cuddy wondered then if perhaps House was right. Maybe a new school was optimal in this instance. Repeating a year was, of course, _not_ what she wanted for her child, but perhaps that was an acceptable price to pay to get Rachel out of the classroom she was in. Surely, if the school stated that Rachel hadn't learned enough to progress, it would be nice to have _some_ good news. Since being held back seemed likely no matter what, the promise of new friends might have been just the thing Rachel needed to be okay with that. Perhaps that would be the thing that kept Rachel from being upset at all.

But then... Cuddy knew that, with just a _little_ more prodding, her daughter could easily go forward with her education. House said he wasn't calling her stupid, but the fact was he had no idea what an average child was capable of; having never been one himself, having never been interested in average in any way, he had no concept for it. He was willing to see her in elementary school until he _died_, because he had no understanding of what was normal for a five year old. Cuddy understood though, and she knew that, regardless of any comparisons he wanted to make to her mother, Rachel was smart enough to keep going. And five minutes with the principal, five minutes of explanations about teachers giving peanut butter to the wrong students and children being cruel, would be all that it took to explain Rachel's academic performance. House would no doubt write off any success as the result of underwear worn, but Cuddy knew that victory would have nothing to do with that. It just really was easy to believe that a five year old couldn't thrive under those conditions. And punishing _Rachel_ for it seemed wrong. It felt drastic, to let Rachel's schooling suffer because of some _idiots_ who didn't know how to be kind to her.

Just as her stomach flip-flopped, so did her mind. If Rachel had been distracted by those things – enough that her grades had fallen that badly – how much really had she learned? From the homework they did together, Cuddy could tell that Rachel… struggled a _little_. All this time, Cuddy had assumed that it was normal difficulties; Rachel didn't want to do homework, or she didn't like doing it with her mother breathing down her shoulder. But maybe that wasn't the case.

Maybe… an extra year was what she needed.

Or perhaps instead of fighting with the current school, Cuddy could make better use of her time by convincing a new school to test her daughter. A placement test would offer them all the answers they needed, and in that case, no matter what happened, Rachel wouldn't be stuck with the children who had made her feel so bad.

Of course, it bothered Cuddy to think that they would be pulling her out of school because of what other people had said. She hadn't been lying when she'd said that there would always be someone out there who wasn't happy with what you did in life. And there was the very real concern now that Rachel would take from this that she could run whenever things got difficult.

But… what would it teach Rachel if Cuddy, knowing all she knew about Rachel's peers, did _nothing_?

What would _that_ say?

She would have sighed in defeat then, if she weren't so sure that exhaling with any intention would make her sick to her stomach. As much as she hated being forced to prove House right, she didn't have any other choice here. Rachel needed to be elsewhere, and Cuddy couldn't ignore that on the hunch that her daughter would turn out fine, regardless of what those children said or did. She wouldn't ignore it. It just… would have been much easier to handle if _he_ hadn't been the one to suggest it.

She could deal with it if he responded with even the slightest hint of grace. Since it was House however, she knew she should expect the exact opposite from him.

She was too busy imagining the gloating when she felt his warm hand on her forehead. The touch unexpected, it scared her, and she jumped in surprise.

"Just me," he said reassuringly, placing the mug of hot tea down on the nightstand next to her. "Your tea's ready." She was too busy swallowing back bile to respond. "Feel sick?"

"Yeah."

"The pill or the whole mentioning of your mother –"

"The pill," she groaned. "Although…."

As her voice trailed off, he leaned down and kissed her temple. He wasn't sure if that would be enough to soothe her noticeable agitation, but it was worth a shot. "I'm sorry," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Drink your tea. You'll feel better."

She stayed where she was.

_That_ meant she really didn't feel well. Naturally, he backed away; he'd spent enough of his day wiping up body fluids from a Cuddy. He had no interest in capping the day off with vomit on him.

"I don't know why you insist on not taking your birth control," he teased as he moved away from her. Changing into his pajamas, he said patronizingly, "You always get sick in the end."

"Well, from now on, I promise not to throw my pills into the toilet."

"That's my girl."

He heard the gentle scrape of the mug on the nightstand at that moment. As he entered the bathroom, he let out a sigh of relief; if she was moving, at least there was a _slight_ chance he wouldn't be woken in the middle of the night by the sounds of her retching.

He wouldn't deny that it sounded selfish. Or even that it _was_ selfish, he mentally corrected as he picked up his toothbrush. He just didn't care. After the day he had, he deserved a night of sleep; he needed it. If Cuddy got sick, he would be expected to take care of her. If he did, he would be unable to move in the morning, which would be a problem given that he assumed he would be watching Rachel tomorrow as well. If he left Cuddy to puke by herself, she would get pissed that he hadn't held her hair or whatever. _That_ would be the issue she fixated on, the reason she didn't trust him with Rachel.

Of all the things she could complain about, he thought tiredly. But that was the price he'd have to pay to get what he wanted, right? He'd explicitly stated how things had to go, and now he had no choice but to ride out the consequences.

There was no way he could back out now.

He couldn't even let on that he was willing to _consider_ changing his mind. The sheer size of the task ahead of him gave him pause, made him _almost_ willing to call the whole thing off. He didn't regret saying what he had. It just… scared him to have his needs out there in the open with no real guarantee that she would ever meet them. And that made it tempting to swallow all of the things he said, write them off as a lie, and deal with her anger over that. But when all was said and done, as scary as it was, he _wanted_ to see this through.

He had to.

And that meant he would never let, could never let any doubt show.

He wouldn't consider what happened if (when) he failed. He would just do his best to make it seem like he was absolutely convinced that this was the right thing to do. And the best way to keep his game face on was to limit the amount of grief she gave him (and vice versa). If she got sick and he didn't help, she would mad. If she got sick and he helped, _he_ would be mad. Either way if she didn't sleep through the nausea, they were screwed.

When he went back into the bedroom, he thought he might have gotten lucky. She was setting the mug of tea onto the nightstand again; she hadn't puked, _yet_, which he felt was a good sign.

"Feel better?" he asked, as he gingerly tried to get into bed without jostling her too much.

"Fine."

The way she said it, she sounded angry. Her attitude made no sense, considering he was doing his best to be nice to her. It made no sense at all, given that kindness was something she had _hardly_ earned with her behavior. He'd forgiven, as he was in the process of getting what he wanted, and she was deciding to act like a bitch in return?

Offended, he stuck his tongue out at her, though she had her back to him and couldn't see it.

She could, however, hear him say sarcastically, "Oh I'm _sorry_. Was I being too –"

"No, I mean – fine, I'll look into other schools."

He blinked in surprised, looked over at her as though she were nuts. "Seriously?"

"Don't gloat," she muttered into her pillow.

"I wasn't. I'm just surprised." Inwardly he would admit that there was a twinge of pleasure, knowing that she had thought about it and come to the same conclusion that he had. But he wasn't going to ruin the moment by saying any of that out loud.

"I'm not guaranteeing anything," she warned, probably because she sensed his happiness. "If it makes more sense for her to stay where she is, just switch classrooms or –"

"So those kids can make fun of her at recess? You think that's a good idea?"

She craned her head around so she could glare at him. "I'm only saying that I'm leaving my options open for now. At least until I've had a chance to research everything."

"Okay."

"Which I will do in all of my free time."

The bite in the words somehow seemed meant for him. On any other day, he might have been tempted to take the bait. Tonight he would let it slide, offering instead, "I can help if you –"

"Since I don't need to know which teachers at each school make the best prospect to have a threesome with –"

"That information is always useful."

She smiled before looking away. "It's never going to happen."

"Really?" Carefully he eased along the mattress so he could spoon against her. Lips on the back of her neck, he whispered, "But what if –"

"_Never _going to happen."

"You're mean."

She grinned. "I know."

"You going to make it up to me somehow?"

"You want me to reward you with something because I've told you for years now that you'll never have a threesome with me?"

He nodded his head, which prompted her to shake hers.

"You're delusional."

His response was to nip lightly at her skin with his teeth. "Cruel woman." But he got over the heartbreak quickly. "Fine. What if I baby sit for –"

"Oh no," she interrupted smugly. "If you really want to play a part in her life –"

"I do," he said with all seriousness.

"Then it's no longer _baby sitting_, is it? You're just… being her father then, aren't you?"

She stumbled over the words, but in saying them, she found herself slightly less uncomfortable with the idea. It still scared her, and there remained a twinge of selfishness, a need to hold Rachel close and share her with nobody else. But those feelings were tempered with comprehension.

It was exactly as Cuddy had said. If he wanted to take on that role in her daughter's life, then he could no longer demand reward for participation. He would simply be expected to do his share. There would be no bargaining, no bets, no favors. They would, she knew, find new ways to incorporate their sex life into unrelated activities and issues. That was one thing they seemed to be unusually gifted at, and she had no doubt that that behavior would continue. She hoped it did.

But taking care of Rachel was now off limits. And if the prospect of seeing House's face when he realized that didn't make the situation easier to accept, Cuddy wasn't sure anything would.

Stunned into silence House didn't respond, making her smile.

"Good night, House."

Finally he said, "Why is it that that sounds like a threat?"

She patted the arm he had wrapped around her. She still wasn't ready for any of this; she couldn't say that she no longer had doubts. She did. But at least now there was something to look forward to, something she could cling to – even if it was something as small as having more control over House.

He would never see it that way, but it was true; he'd just cut himself off at the knees. He'd limited the amount of bargaining chips he had in their day-to-day lives. And it might not have been big, but she would absolutely relish that tiny victory. God, she couldn't wait to see him squirm.

Of course, she wouldn't deny his ingenuity. He would find new ways to manipulate, new avenues of control. But there could be fun in that. She chose to believe that anyway.

"Good night," she repeated, thinking for the first time that things might not be as bad as she initially believed.

_The End_

* * *

_I just want to thank everyone once more for taking the time to read and review and stick with this project of mine for the last couple of years. The journey has not been a quick one or even an easy one, but I hope that you all have enjoyed reading it as much as I have writing it. I would also love it if you took the time to read and review just one last time for me. I've received various requests for prequels, sequels, etc, and I'm definitely open to that. So if you have an opinion on the matter, also feel free to let me know. Thank you so much. You will never know how appreciative I truly am._


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